Alex Haley Roots

First published in 1974

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I owe deep gratitude to so many people for their help withRoots that pages would be required simply to list them all. Thefollowing are preeminent: George Sims, my lifelong friendfrom our Henning, Tennessee boyhood, is a masterresearcher who often traveled with me, sharing both thephysical and emotional adventures. His dedicated combingthrough volumes by the hundreds, and other kinds ofdocuments by the thousands--particularly in the U. S. Libraryof Congress and the U. S. National Archives--supplied muchof the historical and cultural material that I have woven aroundthe lives of the people in this book. Murray Fisher had beenmy editor for years at Playboy magazine when I solicited hisclinical expertise to help me structure this book from aseeming impassable maze of researched materials. After wehad established Roots' pattern of chapters, next the story linewas developed, which he then shepherded throughout. Finally,in the book's pressurized completion phase, he even draftedsome of Roots' scenes, and his brilliant editing pen steadilytightened the book's great length. The Africa section of thisbook exists in its detail only because at a crucial time Mrs.DeWitt Wallace and the editors of the Reader's Digest sharedand supported my intense wish to explore if my maternalfamily's treasured oral history might possibly be documented

family's treasured oral history might possibly be documentedback into Africa where all black Americans began. Nor wouldthis book exist in its fullness without the help of those scoresof dedicated librarians and archivists in some fifty-sevendifferent repositories of information on three continents. Ifound that if a librarian or archivist becomes excited with yourown fervor of research, they can turn into sleuths to aid yourquests. I owe a great debt to Paul R. Reynolds, doyen ofliterary agents--whose client I have the pleasure to be--and toDoubleday Senior Editors Lisa Drew and Ken McCormick, allof whom have patiently shared and salved my frustrationsacross the years of producing Roots. Finally, I acknowledgeimmense debt to the griots of Africa--where today it is rightlysaid that when a griot dies, it is as if a library has burned tothe ground. The griots symbolize how all human ancestry goesback to some place, and some time, where there was nowriting. Then, the memories and the mouths of ancient elderswas the only way that early histories of mankind got passedalong... for all of us today to know who we are.

CHAPTER 1

Early in the spring of 1750, in the village of Juffure, four daysupriver from the coast of The Gambia, West Africa, a manchild was born to Omoro and Binta Kinte. Forcing forth fromBinta's strong young body, he was as black as she was,flecked and slippery with Binta's blood, and he was bawling.The two wrinkled midwives, old Nyo Boto and the baby'sGrandmother Yaisa, saw that it was a boy and laughed withjoy. According to the forefathers, a boy firstborn presaged the

special blessings of Allah not only upon the parents but alsoupon the parents' families; and there was the pridefulknowledge that the name of Kinte would thus be bothdistinguished and perpetuated. It was the hour before the firstcrowing of the cocks, and along with Nyo Boto and GrandmaYaisa's clatterings, the first sound the child heard was themuted, rhythmic bompabompabomp of wooden pestles as theother women of the village pounded couscous grain in theirmortars, preparing the traditional breakfast of porridge thatwas cooked in earthen pots over a fire built among threerocks. The thin blue smoke went curling up, pungent andpleasant, over the small dusty village of round mud huts as thenasal wailing of Kajali Demba, the village alimamo, began,calling men to the first of the five daily prayers that had beenoffered up to Allah for as long as anyone living couldremember. Hastening from their beds of bamboo cane andcured hides into their rough cotton tunics, the men of thevillage filed briskly to the praying place, where the alimamoled the worship: "Allahu Akbar! Ashadu an lailahailala!" (Godis great! I bear witness that there is only one God! It was afterthis, as the men were returning toward their home compoundsfor breakfast, that Omoro rushed among them, beaming andexcited, to tell them of his firstborn son. Congratulating him, allof the men echoed the omens of good fortune. Each man,back in his own hut, accepted a calabash of porridge from hiswife. Returning to their kitchens in the rear of the compound,the wives fed next their children, and finally themselves. Whenthey had finished eating, the men took up their short, bent-handled hoes, whose wooden blades had been sheathed with

metal by the village blacksmith, and set off for their day's workof preparing the land for farming of the ground nuts and thecouscous and cotton that were the primary men's crops, asrice was that of the women, in this hot, lush savanna country ofThe Gambia. By ancient custom, for the next seven days,there was bui a. singic task with which Omoro would seriouslyoccupy himself: the selection of a name for his firstborn son. Itwould have to be a name rich with history and with promise,for the people of his tribe--the Mandinkas--believed that achild would develop seven of the characteristics of whomeveror whatever he was named for. On behalf of himself and Binta,during this week of thinking, Omoro visited every household inJuffure, and invited each family to the naming ceremony of thenewborn child, traditionally on the eighth day of his life. On thatday, like his father and his father's father, this new son wouldbecome a member of the tribe. When the eighth day arrived,the villagers gathered in the early morning before the hut ofOmoro and Binta. On their heads, the women of both familiesbrought calabash containers of ceremonial sour milk andsweet munko cakes of pounded rice and honey. Karamo Silla,the jaliba of the village, was there with his tan-tang drums; andthe alimamo, and the arafang, Brima Cesay, who would someday be the child's teacher; and also Omoro's two brothers,Janneh and Saloum, who had journeyed from far away toattend the ceremony when the drum talk news of theirnephew's birth had reached them. As Binta proudly held hernew infant, a small patch of his first hair was shaved off, aswas always done on this day, and all of the women exclaimedat how well formed the baby was. Then they quieted as the

jaliba/began to beat his drums. The alimamo said a prayerover the calabashes of sour milk and munko cakes, and as heprayed, each guest touched a calabash brim with his or herright hand, as a gesture of respect for the food. Then thealimamo turned to pray over the infant, entreating Allah togrant him long life, success in bringing credit and pride andmany children to his family, to his village, to his tribe--and,finally, the strength and the spirit to deserve and to bring honorto the name he was about to receive. Omoro then walked outbefore all of the assembled people of the village. Moving tohis wife's side, he lifted up the infant and, as all watched,whispered three times into his son's ear the name he hadchosen for him. It was the first time the name had ever beenspoken as this child's name, for Omoro's people felt that eachhuman being should be the first to know who he was. The tan-tang drum resounded again; and now Omoro whispered thename into the ear of Binta, and Binta smiled with pride andpleasure. Then Omoro whispered the name to the arafang,who stood before the villagers. "The first child of Omoro andBinta Kinte is named Kunta!" cried Brima Cesay. As everyoneknew, it was the middle name of the child's late grandfather,Kairaba Kunta Kinte, who had come from his nativeMauretania into The Gambia, where he had saved the peopleof Juffure from a famine, married Grandma Yaisa, and thenserved Juffure honorably till his death as the village's holyman. One by one, the arafang recited the names of theMauretanian forefathers of whom the baby's grandfather, oldKairaba Kinte, had often told. The names, which were greatand many, went back more than two hundred rains. Then the

jaliba pounded on his tan-tang and all of the people exclaimedtheir admiration and respect at such a distinguished lineage.Out under the moon and the stars, alone with his son thateighth night, Omoro completed the naming ritual. Carryinglittle Kunta in his strong arms, he walked to the edge of thevillage, lifted his baby up with his face to the heavens, andsaid softly, "Fend kiting dorong leh warrata ka iteh tee."(Behold--the only thing greater than yourself.

CHAPTER 2

It was the planting season, and the first rains were soon tocome. On all their farming land, the men of Juffure had piledtall stacks of dry weeds and set them afire so that the lightwind would nourish the soil by scattering the ashes. And thewomen in their rice fields were already planting green shootsin the mud. While she was recovering from childbirth, Binta'srice plot had been attended by Grandma Yaisa, but now Bintawas ready to resume her duties. With Kunta cradled acrossher back in a cotton sling, she walked with the other women--some of them, including her friend Jankay Tou- ray, carryingtheir own newborns, along with the bundles they all balancedon their heads--to the dugout canoes on the bank of the villagebelong, one of the many tributary canals that came twistinginland from the Gambia River, known as the Kamby Bolongo.The canoes went skimming down the belong with five or sixwomen in each one, straining against their short, broadpaddles. Each time Binta bent forward to dip and pull, she feltKunta's warm softness pressing against her back. The air was

heavy with the deep, musky fragrance of the mangroves, andwith the perfumes of the other plants and trees that grewthickly on both sides of the belong. Alarmed by the passingcanoes, huge families of baboons, roused from sleep, beganbellowing, springing about and shaking palm-tree fronds. Wildpigs grunted and snorted, running to hide themselves amongthe weeds and bushes. Covering the muddy banks, thousandsof pelicans, cranes, egrets, herons, storks, gulls, terns, andspoonbills interrupted their breakfast feeding to watchnervously as the canoes glided by. Some of the smaller birdstook to the air--ring- doves, skimmers, rails, darters, andkingfishers--circling with shrill cries until the intruders hadpassed. As the canoes arrowed through rippling, busypatches of water, schools of minnows would leap up together,perform a silvery dance, and then splash back. Chasing theminnows, sometimes so hungrily that they flopped right into amoving canoe, were large, fierce fish that the women wouldclub with their paddles and stow away for a succulent eveningmeal. But this morning the minnows swam around themundisturbed. The twisting belong took the rowing womenaround a turn into a wider tributary, and as they came intosight, a great beating of wings filled the air and a vast livingcarpet of seafowl-yhundreds of thousands of them, in everycolor of the rainbow--rose and filled the sky. The surface of thewater, darkened by the storm of birds and furrowed by theirnapping wings, was flecked with feathers as the womenpaddled on. As they neared the marshy faros wheregenerations of Juffure women had grown their rice crops, thecanoes passed through swarming clouds of mosquitoes and

then, one after another, nosed in against a walkway of thicklymatted weeds. The weeds bounded and identified eachwoman's plot, where by now the emerald shoots of young ricestood a hand's height above the water's surface. Since thesize of each woman's plot was decided each year by Juffure'sCouncil of Elders, according to how many mouths eachwoman had to feed with rice, Binta's plot was still a small one.Balancing herself carefully as she stepped from the canoewith her new baby, Binta took a few steps" and then stoppedshort, looking with surprise and delight at a tiny thatch-roofedbamboo hut on stilts. While she was in labor, Omoro hadcome here and built it as a shelter for their son. Typical ofmen, he had said nothing about it. Nursing the baby, thennestling him inside his shelter, Binta changed into the workingclothes she had brought in the bundle on her head, and wadedout to work. Bending nearly double in the water, she pulled upby the roots the young weeds that, left alone, would outgrowand choke the rice crop. And whenever Kunta cried, Bintawaded out, dripping water, to nurse him again in the shadowof his shelter. Little Kunta basked thus every day in hismother's tenderness. Back in her hut each evening, aftercooking and serving Omoro's dinner, Binta would soften herbaby's skin by greasing him from head to toe with shea treebutter, and then--more often than not--she would carry himproudly across the village to the hut of Grandma Yaisa, whowould bestow upon the baby still more cluckings and kissings.And both of them would set little Kunta to whimpering inirritation with their repeated pressings of his little head, nose,ears, and lips, to shape them correctly. Sometimes Omoro

would take his son away from the women and carry theblanketed bundle to his own hut--husbands always residedseparately from their wives--where he would let the child'seyes and fingers explore such attractive objects as the saphie charms at the head of Omoro's bed, placed there to wardoff evil spirits. Anything colorful intrigued little Kunta-especiallyhis father's leather huntsman's bag, nearly covered by nowwith cowrie shells, each for an animal that Omoro hadpersonally brought in as food for the village. And Kunta cooedover the long, curved bow and quiver of arrows hangingnearby. Omoro smiled when a tiny hand reached out andgrasped the dark, slender spear whose shaft was polishedfrom so much use. He let Kunta touch everything except theprayer rug, which was sacred to its owner. And alone togetherin his hut, Omoro would talk to Kunta of the fine and bravedeeds his son would do when he grew up. Finally he wouldreturn Kunta to Binta's hut for the next nursing. Wherever hewas, Kunta was happy most of the time, and he always fellasleep either with Binta rocking him on her lap or bendingover him on her bed, singing softly such a lullaby as, Mysmiling child, Named for a noble ancestor. Great hunter orwarrior You will be one day, Which will give your papa pride.But always I will remember you thus. However much Bintaloved her baby and her husband, she also felt a very realanxiety, for Moslem husbands, by ancient custom, would oftenselect and marry a second wife during that time when theirfirst wives had babies still nursing. As yet Omoro had taken noother wife; and since Binta didn't want him tempted, she feltthat the sooner little Kunta was able to walk alone, the better,

for that was when the nursing would end. So Binta was quickto help him as soon as Kunta, at about thirteen moons, triedhis first unsteady steps. And. before long, he was able totoddle about without an assisting hand. Binta was as relievedas Omoro was proud, and when Kunta cried for his nextfeeding, Binta gave her son not a breast but a sound spankingand a gourd of cow's milk.

CHAPTER 3

Three rains had passed, and it was that lean season when thevillage's store of grain and other dried foods from the lastharvest was almost gone. The men had hunted, but they hadreturned with only a few small antelopes and gazelle andsome clumsy bush fowl for in this season of burning sun, somany of the savanna's water holes had dried into mud that thebigger and better game had moved into deep forest--at thevery time when the people of Juffure needed all their strengthto plant crops for the new harvest. Already, the wives werestretching their staple meals of couscous and rice with thetasteless seeds of bamboo cane and with the bad-tastingdried leaves of the baobab tree. The days of hunger hadbegun so early that five goats and two bullocks--more than lasttime--were sacrificed to strengthen everyone's prayers thatAllah might spare the village from starvation. Finally the hotskies clouded, the light breezes became brisk winds and,abruptly as always, the little rains began, falling warmly andgently as the farmers hoed the softened earth into long,straight rows in readiness for the seeds. They knew the

planting must be done before the big rains came. The nextfew mornings, after breakfast, instead of canoeing to their ricefields, the farmers' wives dressed in the traditional fertilitycostumes of large fresh leaves, symbolizing the green ofgrowing things, and set out for the furrowed fields of the men.Their voices would be heard rising and falling even beforethey appeared as they chanted ancestral prayers that thecouscous and ground nuts and other seeds in the earthenbowls balanced on their heads would take strong roots andgrow. With their bare feet moving in step, the line of womenwalked and sang three times around every farmer's field. Thenthey separated, and each woman fell in behind a farmer as hemoved along each row, punching a hole in the earth every fewinches with his big toe. Into each hole a woman dropped aseed, covered it over with her own big toe, and then movedon. The women worked even harder than the men, for they notonly had to help their husbands but also tend both the ricefields and the vegetable gardens they cultivated near theirkitchens. While Binta planted her onions, yams, gourds,cassava, and bitter tomatoes, little Kunta spent his daysromping under the watchful eyes of the several oldgrandmothers who took care of all the children of Juffure whobelonged to the first kafo, which included those under fiverains in age. The boys and girls alike scampered about asnaked as young animals--some of them just beginning to saytheir first words. All, like Kunta, were growing fast, laughingand squealing as they ran after each other around the gianttrunk of the village baobab, played hide-and-seek, andscattered the dogs and chickens into masses of fur and

feathers. But all the children--even those as small as Kunta--would quickly scramble to sit still and quiet when the telling ofa story was promised by one of the old grandmothers. Thoughunable yet to understand many of the words, Kunta wouldwatch with wide eyes as the old women acted out their storieswith such gestures and noises that they really seemed to behappening. As little as he was, Kunta was already familiar withsome of the stories that his own Grandma Yaisa had told tohim alone when he had been visiting in her hut. But along withhis first-kafo playmates, he felt that the best story-teller of allwas the beloved, mysterious, and peculiar old Nyo Boto. Bald-headed, deeply wrinkled, as black as the bottom of a cookingpot, with her long lemongrass-root chew stick sticking out likean insect's feeler between the few teeth she had left--whichwere deep orange from the countless kola nuts she hadgnawed on--old Nyo Boto would settle herself with muchgrunting on her low stool. Though she acted gruff, the childrenknew that she loved them as if they were her own, which sheclaimed they all were.

Surrounded by them, she would growl,

"Let me tell a story..." "Please!" the children would chorus,wriggling in anticipation. And she would begin in the way thatall Mandinka story-tellers began: "At this certain time, in thiscertain village, lived this certain person." It was a small boy,she said, of about their rains, who walked to the riverbank oneday and found a crocodile trapped in a net. "Help me!" thecrocodile cried out. "You'll kill me!" cried the boy. "No! Come

nearer!" said the crocodile. So the boy went up to thecrocodile--and instantly was seized by the teeth in that longmouth. "Is this how you repay my goodness--with badness?"cried the boy. "Of course," said the crocodile out of the cornerof his mouth. "That is the way of the world." The boy refused tobelieve that, so the crocodile agreed not to swallow himwithout getting an opinion from the first three witnesses topass by. First was an old donkey. When the boy asked hisopinion, the donkey said, "Now that I'm old and can no longerwork, my master has driven me out for the leopards to getme!" "See?" said the crocodile. Next to pass by was an oldhorse, who had the same opinion. "See?" said the crocodile.Then along came a plump rabbit who said, "Well, I can't give agood opinion without seeing this matter as it happened fromthe beginning." Grumbling, the crocodile opened his mouth totell him--and the boy jumped out to safety on the riverbank."Do you like crocodile meat?" asked the rabbit. The boy saidyes. "And do your parents?" He said yes again. "Then here isa crocodile ready for the pot." The boy ran off and returnedwith the men of the village, who helped him to kill thecrocodile. But they brought with them a wuolo dog, whichchased and caught and killed the rabbit, too. "So thecrocodile was right," said Nyo Boto. "It is the way of the worldthat goodness is often repaid with badness. This is what Ihave told you as a story." "May you be blessed, have strengthand pros peri said the children gratefully. Then the othergrandmothers would pass among the children with bowls offreshly toasted beetles and grasshoppers. These would havebeen only tasty tidbits at another time of year, but now, on the

eve of the big rains, with the hungry season already beginning,the toasted insects had to serve as a noon meal, for only afew handfuls of couscous and rice remained in most families'storehouses.

CHAPTER 4

Fresh, brief showers fell almost every morning now, andbetween the showers Kunta and his playmates would dashabout excitedly outside. "Mine! Mine!" they would shout at thepretty rainbows that would arc down to the earth, seemingnever very far away. But the showers also brought swarms offlying insects whose vicious stinging and biting soon drove thechildren back indoors. Then, suddenly, late one night, the bigrains began, and the people huddled inside their cold hutslistening to the water pound on their thatch roofs, watching thelightning flash and comforting their children as the frighteningthunder rumbled through the night. Between cloudbursts, theyheard only the barking of the jackals, the howling of thehyenas, and the croaking of the frogs. The rains came againthe next night, and the next, and the next--and only at night--flooding the lowlands near the river, turning their fields into aswamp and their village into a mud hole Yet each morningbefore breakfast, all the farmers struggled through the mud toJuffure's little mosque and implored Allah to send still morerain, for life itself depended upon enough water to soakdeeply into the earth before the hot suns arrived, which wouldwither those crops whose roots could not find enough water tosurvive. In the damp nursery hut, dimly lighted and poorly

heated by the burning dry sticks and cattle-dung patties in theearthen floor's shallow fire hole old Nyo Boto told Kunta andthe other children of the terrible time she remembered whenthere were not enough big rains. No matter how bad anythingwas, Nyo Boto would always remember a time when it wasworse. After two days of big rain, she told them, the burningsuns had come. Although the people prayed very hard to Allah,and danced the ancestral rain dance, and sacrificed twogoats and a bullock every day, still everything growing in theground began to parch and die. Even the forest's water holesdried up, said Nyo Boto, and first wild fowl, and then theforest's animals, sick from thirst, began to appear at thevillage well. In crystal-clear skies each night, thousands ofbright stars shone, and a cold wind blew, and more and morepeople grew ill. Clearly, evil spirits were abroad in Juffure.Those who were able continued their prayers and theirdances, and finally the last goat and bullock had beensacrificed. It was as if Allah had turned His back on Juffure.Some--the old and the weak and the sick--began to die.Others left town, seeking another village to beg someone whohad food to accept them as slaves, just to get something intotheir bellies, and those who stayed behind lost their spirit andlay down in their huts. It was then, said Nyo Boto, that Allahhad guided the steps of mar about Kairaba Kunta Kinte intothe starving village of Juffure. Seeing the people's plight, hekneeled down and prayed to Allah--almost without sleep andtaking only a few sips of water as nourishment--for the nextfive days. And on the evening of the fifth day came a greatrain, which fell like a flood, and saved Juffure. When she

finished her story, the other children looked with new respectat Kunta, who bore the name of that distinguished grandfather,husband of Kunta's Grandma Yaisa. Even before now, Kuntahad seen how the parents of the other children acted towardYaisa, and he had sensed that she was an important woman,just as old Nyo Boto surely was. The big rains continued to fallevery night until Kunta and the other children began to seegrownups wading across the village in mud up to their anklesand even to their knees, and even using canoes to paddlefrom place to place. Kunta had heard Binta tell Omoro that therice fields were flooded in the bolong's high waters. Cold andhungry, the children's fathers sacrificed precious goats andbullocks to Allah almost every day, patched leaking roofs,shored up sagging huts--and prayed that their disappearingstock of rice and couscous would last until the harvest. ButKunta and the others, being yet little children, paid lessattention to the hunger pangs in their bellies than to playing inthe mud, wrestling each other and sliding on their nakedbottoms. Yet in their longing to see the sun again, they wouldwave up at the slate-colored sky and shout--as they had seentheir parents do"--Shine, sun, and I will kill you a goat!" Thelife-giving rain had made every growing thing fresh andluxuriant. Birds sang everywhere. The trees and plants wereexplosions of fragrant blossoms. The reddish-brown, clingingmud underfoot was newly carpeted each morning, with thebright-colored petals and green leaves beaten loose by therain of the night before. But amid all the lushness of nature,sickness spread steadily among the people of Juffure, fornone of the richly growing crops was ripe enough to eat. The

adults and children alike would stare hungrily at the thousandsof plump mangoes and monkey apples hanging heavy on thetrees, but the green fruits were as hard as rocks, and thosewho bit into them fell ill and vomited. "Nothing but skin andbones!" Grandma Yaisa would exclaim, making a loudclicking noise with her tongue every time she saw Kunta. Butin fact his grandma was almost as thin as he; for everystorehouse in Juffure was now completely empty. What few ofthe village's cattle and goats and chickens had not been eatenor sacrificed had to be kept alive--and fed--if there was to bea next year's crop of kids and calves and baby chicks. So thepeople began to eat rodents, roots, and leaves foraged fromin and around the village on searchings that began when thesun rose and ended when it set. If the men had gone to theforests to hunt wild game, as they frequently did at other timesof the year, they wouldn't have had the strength to drag it backto the village. Tribal taboos forbade the Mandinkas to eat theabounding monkeys and baboons; nor would they touch themany hens' eggs that lay about, or the millions of big greenbullfrogs that Mandinkas regarded as poisonous. And asdevout Moslems, they would rather have died than eat theflesh of the wild pigs that often came rooting in herds rightthrough the village. For ages, families of cranes had nested inthe topmost branches of the village's silk-cotton tree, andwhen the young hatched, the big cranes shuttled back andforth bringing fish, which they had just caught in the belong, tofeed their babies. Watching for the right moment, thegrandmothers and the children would rush beneath the tree,whooping and hurling small sticks and stones upward at the

nest. And often, in the noise and confusion, a young crane'sgaping mouth would miss the fish, and the fish would miss thenest and come slapping down-among the tall tree's thickfoliage to the ground. The children would struggle over theprize, and someone's family would have a feast for dinner. Ifone of the stones thrown up by the children happened to hit agawky, pin-feathered young crane, it would sometimes fallfrom the high nest along with the fish, killing or injuring itself inthe crash against the ground; and that night a few familieswould have crane soup. But such meals were rare. By the lateevening, each family would meet back at their hut, bringingwhatever each individual had found--perhaps even a mole ora handful of large grub worms if they were lucky--for thatnight's pot of soup, heavily peppered and spiced to improvethe taste. But such fare filled their bellies without bringingnourishment. And so it was that the people of Juffure began todie.

CHAPTER 5

More and more often now, the high-pitched howling of awoman would be heard throughout the village. The fortunatewere those babies and toddlers yet too young to understand,for even Kunta was old enough to know that the howling meanta loved one had just died. In the afternoons, usually, some sickfarmer who had been out cutting weeds in his field would becarried back to the village on a bullock's hide, lying very still.And disease had begun to swell the legs of some adults. Yetothers developed fevers with heavy perspiration and trembling

chills. And among all the children, small areas on their arms ortegs would puff up, rapidly grow larger and painfully sore; thenthe puffed areas would split, leaking a pinkish fluid that soonbecame a full, yellow, stinking pus that drew buzzing flies. Thehurting of the big open sore on Kunta's leg made him stumblewhile trying to run one day. Falling hard, he was picked up byhis playmates, stunned and yelling, with his foreheadbleeding. Since Binta and Omoro were away farming, theyrushed him to the hut of Grandma Yaisa, who for a number ofdays now had not appeared in the nursery hut. She lookedvery weak, her black face gaunt and drawn, and she wassweating under her bullock hide on her bamboo pallet. Butwhen she saw Kunta, she sprang up to wipe his bleedingforehead. Embracing him tightly, she ordered the otherchildren to run and bring her some kelelalu ants. When theyreturned. Grandma Yaisa tightly pressed together the skin'ssplit edges, then pressed one struggling driver ant afteranother against the wound. As each ant angrily clamped itsstrong pincers into the flesh on each side of the cut, she deftlysnapped off its body, leaving the head in place, until thewound was stitched together. Dismissing the other children,she told Kunta to lie down and rest alongside her on the bed.He lay and listened to her labored breathing as she remainedsilent for some time. Then Grandma Yaisa's hand gesturedtoward a pile of books on the shelf beside her bed. Speakingslowly, and softly, she told Kunta more about his grandfather,whose books she said those were. In his native country ofMauretania, Kairaba Kunta Kinte had thirty-five rains of agev/hen his teacher, a master mar about gave him the blessing

that made him a holy man, said Grandma Yaisa. Kunta'sgrandfather had followed a family tradition of holy men thatdated back many hundreds of rains into Old Mali. As a man ofthe fourth kafo, he had begged the old mar about to accepthim as a student, and for the next fifteen rains had traveledwith his party of wives, slaves, students, cattle and goats ashe pilgrim aged from village to village in the service of Allahand his subjects. Over dusty foot trails and muddy creeks,under hot suns and cold rains, through green valleys andwindy wastelands, said Grandma Yaisa, they had trekkedsouthward from Mauretania. Upon receiving his ordination asa holy man, Kairaba Kunta Kinte had himself wandered formany moons alone, among places in Old Mali such as Keyla,Djeela, Kangaba, and Timbuktu, humbly prostrating himselfbefore very great old holy men and imploring their blessingsfor his success, which they all freely gave. And Allah thenguided the young holy man's footsteps in a southerly direction,finally to The Gambia, where he stopped first in the village ofPakali N'Ding. In a short while, the people of this village knew,by the quick results from his prayers, that this young holy manhad upon him Allah's special favor. Talking drums spread thenews, and soon other villages tried to lure him away, sendingmessengers with offers of prime maidens for wives, andslaves and cattle and goats. And before long he did move, thistime to the village of Jiffarong, but only because Allah hadcalled him there, for the people of Jiffarong had little to offerhim but their gratitude for his prayers. It was here that heheard of the village of Juffure, where people were sick anddying for lack of a big rain. And so at last he came to Juffure,

said Grandma Yaisa, where for five days, ceaselessly, he hadprayed until Allah sent down the big rain that saved the village.Learning of Kunta's grandfather's great deed, the King ofBarra himself, who ruled this part of The Gambia, personallypresented a choice virgin for the young holy man's first wife,and her name was Sireng. By Sireng, Kairaba Kunta Kintebegot two sons--and he named them Janneh and Saloum. Bynow, Grandma Yaisa had sat up on her bamboo pallet. "It wasthen," she said with shining eyes, "that he saw Yaisa, dancingthe seoruba! My age was fifteen rains! " She smiled widely,showing her toothless gums. "He needed no king to choosehis next wife!" She looked at Kunta. "It was from my belly thathe begot your papa Omoro." That night, back in his mother'shut, Kunta lay awake for a long time, thinking of the thingsGrandma Yaisa had told him. Many times, Kunta had heardabout the grandfather holy man whose prayers had saved thevillage, and whom later Allah had taken back. But Kunta hadnever truly understood until now that this man was his father'sfather, that Omoro had known him as he knew Omoro, thatGrandma Yaisa was Omoro's mother as Binta was his own.Some day, he too would find a woman such as Binta to bearhim a son of his own. And that son, in turn... Turning over andclosing his eyes, Kunta followed these deep thoughts slowlyinto sleep.

CHAPTER 6

Just before sundown for the next few days, after returning fromthe rice field, Binta would send Kunta to the village well for a

calabash of fresh water, which she would use to boil a soupfrom whatever scraps she could find. Then she and Kuntawould take some of the soup across the village to GrandmaYaisa. Binta moved more slowly than usual, it seemed toKunta, and he noticed that her belly was very big and heavy.While Grandma Yaisa protested weakly that she would soonfeel well again, Binta would clean up the hut and arrangethings. And they would leave Grandma Yaisa propped up onher bed, eating a bowl of soup along with some of Binta'shungry-season bread, made from the yellow powder thatcovered the dry black beans of the wild locust tree. Then onenight, Kunta awakened to find himself being shaken roughly byhis father. Binta was making low, moaning sounds on her bed,and also within the hut, moving quickly about, were Nyo Botoand Binta's friend Jankay Touray. Omoro hurried across thevillage with Kunta, who, wondering what all of this was about,soon drifted back to sleep on his father's bed. In the morning,Omoro again awakened Kunta and said, "You have a newbrother." Scrambling sleepily onto his knees and rubbing hiseyes, Kunta thought it must be something very special to soplease his usually stern father. In the afternoon, Kunta was withhis kafo mates, looking for things to eat, when Nyo Boto calledhim and took him to see Binta. Looking very tired, she sat onthe edge of her bed gently caressing the baby in her lap.Kunta stood a moment studying the little wrinkly black thing;then he looked at the two women smiling at it, and he noticedthat the familiar bigness of Binta's stomach was suddenlygone. Going back outside without a word, Kunta stood for along moment and then, instead of rejoining his friends, went

off to sit by himself behind his father's hut and think about whathe had seen. Kunta continued sleeping in Omoro's but for thenext seven nights--not that anyone seemed to notice or care,in their concern for the new baby. He was beginning to thinkthat his mother didn't want him any more--or his father, either--until, on the evening of the eighth day, Omoro called himbefore his mother's hut, along with everyone else in Juffurewho was physically able, to hear the new baby given hischosen name, which was Lamin. That night Kunta sleptpeacefully and well--back in his own bed beside his motherand his new brother. But within a few days, as soon as herstrength had returned, Binta began to take the baby, aftercooking and serving something for Omoro's and Kunta'sbreakfast, and spent most of each day in the hut of GrandmaYaisa. From the worried expressions that both Binta andOmoro wore, Kunta knew that Grandma Yaisa was very sick.Late one afternoon, a few days later, he and his kafo mateswere out picking mangoes, which had finally ripened. Bruisingthe tough, orange-yellow skin against the nearest rock, theywould bite open one plump end to squeeze and suck out thesoft sweet flesh within. They were collecting basketfuls ofmonkey apples and wild cashew nuts when Kunta suddenlyheard the howling of a familiar voice from the direction of hisgrandma's hut. A chill shot. through him, for it was the voice ofhis mother, raised in the death wail that he had heard so oftenin recent weeks. Other women immediately joined in akeening cry that soon spread all the way across the village.Kunta ran blindly toward his grandmother's hut. Amid themilling confusion, Kunta saw an anguished Omoro and a

bitterly weeping old Nyo Boto. Within moments, the tobalodrum was being beaten and the jaliba was loudly crying outthe good deeds of Grandma Yaisa's long life in Juffure. Numbwith shock, Kunta stood watching blankly as the youngunmarried women of the village beat up dust from the groundwith wide fans of plaited grass, as was the custom on theoccasion of a death. No one seemed to notice Kunta. AsBinta and Nyo Boto and two other shrieking women enteredthe hut, the crowd outside fell to their knees and bowed theirheads. Kunta burst suddenly into tears, as much in fear as ingrief. Soon men came with a large, freshly split log and set itdown in front of the hut. Kunta watched as the women broughtout and laid on the log's flat surface the body of hisgrandmother, enclosed from her neck to her feet in a whitecotton winding cloth. Through his tears, Kunta saw themourners walk seven circles around Yaisa, praying andchanting as the alimamo wailed that she was journeying tospend eternity with Allah and her ancestors. To give herstrength for that journey, young unmarried men tenderly placedcattle horns filled with fresh ashes all around her body. Aftermost of the mourners had filed away, Nyo Boto and other oldwomen took up posts nearby, huddling and weeping andsqueezing their heads with their hands. Soon, young womenbrought the biggest ciboa leaves that could be found, toprotect the old women's heads from rain through their vigil.And as the old women sat, the village drums talked aboutGrandma Yaisa far into the night. In the misty morning,according to the custom of the forefathers, only the men ofJuffure those who were able to walk joined the procession to

the burying place, not far past the village, where otherwisenone would go, out of the Mandinkas' fearful respect for thespirits of their ancestors. Behind the men who bore GrandmaYuisa on the log came Omoro, carrying the infant Lamin andholding the hand of little Kunta, who was too frightened to cry.And behind them came the other men of the village. The stiff,white-wrapped body was lowered into the freshly dug hole,and over her went a thick woven cane mat. Next were thornbushes, to keep out the digging hyenas, and the rest of thehole was packed tight with stones and a mound of fresh earth.Afterward, for many days, Kunta hardly ate or slept, and hewould not go anywhere with his kafo mates. So grieved washe that Omoro, one evening, took him to his own hut, andthere beside his bed, speaking to his son more softly andgently than he ever had before, told him something that helpedto ease his grief. He said that three groups of people lived inevery village. First were those you could see walking around,eating, sleeping, and working. Second were the ancestors,whom Grandma Yaisa had now joined. "And the third peoplewho are they?" asked Kunta. "The third people," said Omoro,"are those waiting to be born."

CHAPTER 7

The rains had ended, and between the bright blue sky and thedamp earth, the air was heavy with the fragrance of lush wildblooms and fruits. The early mornings echoed with the soundof the women's mortars pounding millet and couscous andground nuts--not from the main harvest, but from those early-

growing seeds that the past year's harvest had left living in thesoil. The men hunted, bringing back fine, plump antelope, andafter passing out the meat, they scraped and cured the hides.And the women busily collected the ripened reddishmangkano berries, shaking the bushes over cloths spreadbeneath, then drying the berries in the sun before poundingthem to separate the delicious futo flour from the seeds.Nothing was wasted. Soaked and boiled with pounded millet,the seeds were cooked into a sweetish breakfast gruel thatKunta and everyone else welcomed as a seasonal change ofdiet from their usual morning meal of couscous porridge. Asfood became more plentiful each day, new life flowed 1} intoJuffure in ways that could be seen and heard. The men beganto walk more briskly to and from their farms, pride- fullyinspecting their bountiful crops, which would soon be ready forharvesting. With the flooded river now subsiding rapidly, thewomen were rowing daily to the faro and pulling out the last ofthe weeds from among the tall, green rows of rice. And thevillage rang again with the yelling and laughing of the childrenback at play after the long hungry season. Bellies now filledwith nourishing food, sores dried into scabs and falling away,they dashed and frolicked about as if possessed. One daythey would capture some big scarab dung beetles, line themup for a race, and cheer the fastest to run outside a circledrawn in the dirt with a stick. Another day, Kunta and SitafaSilla, his special friend, who lived in the hut next to Binta's,would raid a tall earth mound to dig up the blind, winglesstermites that lived inside, and watch them pour out by thethousands and scurry frantically to get away. Sometimes the

boys would rout out little ground squirrels and chase them intothe bush. And they loved nothing better than to hurl stones aridshouts at passing schools of small, brown, long-tailedmonkeys, some of which would throw a stone back beforeswinging up to join their screeching brothers in the topmostbranches of a tree. And every day the boys would wrestle,grabbing each other, sprawling down, grunting, scrambling,and springing up to start all over again, each one dreaming ofthe day when he might become one of Juffure's championwrestlers and be chosen to wage mighty battles with thechampions of other villages during the harvest festivals. Adultspassing anywhere near the children would solemnly pretendnot to see nor hear as Sitafa, Kunta, and the rest of their kafogrowled and roared like lions, trumpeted like elephants, andgrunted like wild pigs, or as the girls--cooking and tendingtheir dolls and beating their couscous--played mothers andwives among themselves. But however hard they wereplaying, the children never failed to pay every adult the respecttheir mothers had taught them to show always toward theirelders. Politely looking the adults in the eyes, the childrenwould ask, "Kerabe?" (Do you have peace? And the adultswould reply, "Kera dorong." (Peace only. And if an adultoffered his hand, each child in turn would clasp it with bothhands, then stand with palms folded over his chest until thatadult passed by. Kunta's home-training had been so strict that,it seemed to him, his every move drew Binta's irritated finger-snapping--if, indeed, he wasn't grabbed and soundly whipped.When he was eating, he would get a cuff on the head if Bintacaught his eyes on anything except his own food. And unless

he washed off every bit of dirt when he came into the hut froma hard day's play, Binta would snatch up her scratchy spongeof dried plant stems and her bar of homemade soap andmake Kunta think she was going to scrape off his very hide.For him ever to stare at her, or at his father, or at any otheradult, would earn him a slap as quickly as when he committedthe equally serious offense of interrupting the conversation ofany grown-up. And for him ever to speak anything but truthwould have been unthinkable. Since there never seemed anyreason for him to lie, he never did. Though Binta didn't seemto think so, Kunta tried his best to be a good boy, and soonbegan to practice his home-training lessons with the otherchildren. When disagreements occurred among them, as theyoften did--some- times fanning into exchanges of harsh wordsand fingersnapping--Kunta would always turn and walk away,thus displaying the dignity and self-command that his motherhad taught him were the proudest traits of the Mandinka tribe.But almost every night, Kunta got spanked for doingsomething bad to his baby brother--usually for frightening himby snarling fiercely, or by dropping on all fours like a baboon,rolling his eyes, and stomping his fists like forepaws upon theground. "I will bring the toubob!" Binta would yell at Kuntawhen he had tried her patience to the breaking point, scaringKunta most thoroughly, for the old grandmothers spoke oftenof the hairy, red-faced, strangelooking white men whose bigcanoes stole people away from their homes.

CHAPTER 8

Though Kunta and his mates were tired and hungry from playby the time of each day's setting sun, they would still race oneanother to climb small trees and point at the sinking crimsonball. "He will be even lovelier tomorrow!" they would shout.And even Juffure's adults ate dinner quickly so that they mightcongregate outside in the deepening dusk to shout and clapand pound on drums at the rising of the crescent moon,symbolic of Allah. But when clouds shrouded that new moon,as they did this night, the people dispersed, alarmed, and themen entered the mosque to pray for forgiveness, since ashrouded new moon meant that the heavenly spirits weredispleased with the people of Juffure. After praying, the menled their frightened families to the baobab, where already onthis night the jaliba squatted by a small fire, heating to itsutmost tautness the goatskin head of his talking drum.Rubbing at his eyes, which smarted from the smoke of thefire, Kunta remembered the times that drums talking at nightfrom different villages had troubled his sleep. Awakening, hewould lie there, listening hard; the sounds and rhythms wereso like those of speech that he would finally understand someof the words, telling of a famine' or a plague, or of the raidingand burning of some village, with its people killed or stolenaway. Hanging on a branch of the baobab, beside the jaliba,was a goatskin inscribed with the marks that talk, written therein Arabic by the arafang. In the flickering firelight, Kuntawatched as the jaliba began to beat the knobby elbows of hiscrooked sticks very rapidly and sharply against different spotson the drumhead. It was an urgent message for the nearestmagic man to come to Juffure and drive out evil spirits. Not

daring to look up at the moon, the people hurried home andfearfully went to bed. But at intervals through the night, the talkof distant drums echoed the appeal of Juffure for a magic manin other villages as well. Shivering beneath his cows kingKunta guessed that their new moon was shrouded, too. Thenext day, the men of Omoro's age had to help the youngermen of the village to guard their nearly ripened fields againstthe seasonal plague of hungry baboons and birds. Thesecond-kafo boys were told to be especially vigilant as theygrazed the goats, and the mothers and grandmothers hoveredcloser than they normally would over the toddlers and thebabies. The first kafo's biggest children, those the size ofKunta and Sitafa, were instructed to play a little way out pastthe village's tall fence, where they could keep a sharp lookoutfor any stranger approaching the travelers' tree, not far distant.They did, but none came that day. He appeared on thesecond morning--a very old man, walking with the help of awooden staff and bearing a large bundle on his bald head.Spotting him, the children raced shouting back through thevillage gate. Leaping up, old Nyo Boto hobbled over andbegan to beat on the big tobalo drum that brought the menrushing back to the village from their fields a moment beforethe magic man reached the gate and entered Juffure. As thevillagers gathered around him, he walked over to the baobaband set down his bundle carefully on the ground. Abruptlysquatting, he then shook from a wrinkled goatskin bag a heapof dried objects--a small snake, a hyena's jawbone, amonkey's teeth, a pelican's wing bone various fowls' feet, andstrange roots. Glancing about, he gestured impatiently for the

hushed crowd to give him more room; and the people movedback as he began to quiver all over--clearly being attacked byJuffure's evil spirits. The magic man's body writhed, his facecontorted, his eyes rolled wildly, as his trembling handsstruggled to force his resisting wand into contact with the heapof mysterious objects. When the wand's tip, with a supremeeffort, finally touched, he fell over backward and lay as if struckby lightning. The people gasped. But then he slowly began torevive. The evil spirits had been driven out. As he struggledweakly to his knees, Juffure's adults--exhausted but relieved--went running off to their huts and soon returned with gifts topress upon him. The magic man added these to his bundle,which was already large and heavy with gifts from previousvillages, and soon he was on his way to answer the next call.In his mercy, Allah had seen fit to spare Juffure once again.

CHAPTER 9

Twelve moons had passed, and with the big rains ended onceagain. The Gambia's season for travelers had begun. Alongthe network of walking paths between its villages cameenough-visitors--passing by or stopping off in Juffure--to keepKunta and his playmates on the lookout almost every day.After alerting the village when a stranger appeared, theywould rush back out to meet each visitor as he approachedthe travelers' tree. Trooping boldly alongside him, they wouldchatter away inquisitively as their sharp eyes hunted for anysigns of his mission or profession. If they found any, theywould abruptly abandon the visitor and race back ahead to tell

the grownups in that day's hospitality hut. In accordance withancient tradition, a different family in each village would bechosen every day to offer food and shelter to arriving visitorsat no cost for as long as they wished to stay before continuingtheir journey. Having been entrusted with the responsibility ofserving as the village lookouts, Kunta, Sitafa, and their kafomates began to feel and act older than their rains. Now afterbreakfast each morning, they would gather by the arafang'sschoolyard and kneel quietly to listen as he taught the olderboys--those of the second kafo, just beyond Kunta's age, fiveto nine rains old--how to read their Koranic verses and to writewith grass-quill pens dipped in the black ink of bitter-orangejuice mixed with powdered crust from the bottom of cookingpots. When the schoolboys finished their lessons and ran on---with the tails of their cotton dundikos flapping behind them--toherd the village's goats out into the brush lands for the day'sgrazing, Kunta and his mates tried to act very unconcerned,but the truth was that they envied the older boys' long shirts asmuch as they did their important jobs. Though he said nothing,Kunta was not alone in feeling that he was too grown up to betreated like a child and made to go naked any longer. Theyavoided suckling babies like Lamin as if they were diseased,and the toddlers they regarded as even more unworthy ofnotice, unless it was to give them a good whack when noadults were watching. Shunning even the attentions of the oldgrandmothers who had taken care of them for as long as theycould remember, Kunta, Sitafa, and the others began to hangaround grownups of their parents' age in hopes of being seenunderfoot and perhaps sent off on an errand. It was just before

the harvest came that Omoro told Kunta very casually, onenight after dinner, that he wanted him up early the next day tohelp guard the crops. Kunta was so excited he could hardlysleep. After gulping down his breakfast in the morning, healmost burst with joy when Omoro, handed him the hoe tocarry when they set out for the fields. Kunta and his matesfairly flew up and down the ripe rows, yelling and waving sticksat the wild pigs and baboons that came grunting from thebrush to root or snatch up ground nuts With dirt clods andshouts, they routed whistling flocks of blackbirds as theywheeled low over the couscous, for the grandmothers' storieshad told of ripened fields ruined as quickly by hungry birds asby any animal. Collecting the handfuls of couscous and groundnuts that their fathers had cut or pulled up to test for ripeness,and carrying gourds of cool water for the men to drink, theyworked all through the day with a swiftness equaled only bytheir pride. Six days later, Allah decreed that the harvestshould begin. After the dawn's suba prayer, the farmers andtheir sons--some chosen few carrying small tan-tang and sour-aba drums--went out to the fields and waited with headscocked, listening. Finally, the village's great tobalo drumboomed and the farmers leaped to the harvesting. As thejaliba and the other drummers walked among them, beatingout a rhythm to match their movements, everyone began tosing. In exhilaration now and then, a farmer would fling his hoe,whirling up on one drumbeat and catching it on the next.Kunta's kafo sweated alongside their fathers, shaking thegroundnut bushes free of dirt. Halfway through the morningcame the first rest--and then, at midday, happy shouts of relief

as the women and girls arrived with lunch. Walking in singlefile, also singing harvest songs, they took the pots from theirheads, ladled the contents into calabashes, and served themto the drummers and harvesters, who ate and then nappeduntil the tobalo sounded once again. Piles of the harvestdotted the fields at the end of that first day. Streaming sweatand mud, the farmers trudged wearily to the nearest stream,where they took off their clothes and leaped into the water,laughing and splashing to cool and clean themselves. Thenthey headed home, swatting at the biting flies that buzzedaround their glistening bodies. The closer they came to thesmoke that drifted toward them from the women's kitchens,the more tantalizing were the smells of the roasted meats thatwould be served three times daily for however long it took tofinish the harvest. After stuffing himself that night, Kuntanoticed--as he had for several nights--that his mother wassewing something. She said nothing about it, nor did Kuntaask. But the next morning, as he picked up his hoe and beganto walk out the door, she looked at him and said gruffly, "Whydon't you put on your clothes?" Kunta jerked around. There,hanging from a peg, was a brand-new dundiko. Struggling toconceal his excitement, he matter-of-factly put it on andsauntered out the door--where he burst into a run. Others ofhis kafo were already outside--all of them, like him, dressedfor the first time in their lives, all of them leaping, shouting, andlaughing because their nakedness was covered at last. Theywere now officially of the second kafo. They were becomingmen.

CHAPTER 10

By the time Kunta sauntered back into his mother's hut thatnight, he had made sure that everyone in Juffure had seen himin his dundiko. Though he hadn't stopped working all day, hewasn't a bit tired, and he knew he'd never be able to go tosleep at his regular bedtime. Perhaps now that he was agrown-up, Binta would let him stay up later. But soon afterLamin was asleep, the same as always, she sent him to bed--with a reminder to hang up his dundiko. As he turned to go,sulking as conspicuously as he thought he could get awaywith, Binta called him back--probably to reprimand him forsulking, Kunta thought, or maybe she'd taken pity on him andchanged her mind. "Your Pa wants to see you in the morning,"she said casually. Kunta knew better than to ask why, so hejust said, "Yes, Mama," and wished her good night. It was justas well he wasn't tired, because he couldn't sleep nowanyway, lying under his cowhide coverlet wondering what hehad done now that was wrong, as it seemed he did so often.But racking his brain, he couldn't think of a single thing,especially nothing so bad that Binta herself wouldn't havewhacked him for it, since a father would involve himself onlywith something pretty terrible. Finally he gave up worrying anddrifted off to sleep. At breakfast the next morning, Kunta wasso subdued that he almost forgot the joy of his dundiko, untilnaked little Lamin happened to brush up against it. Kunta'shand jerked up to shove him away, but a flashing look fromBinta prevented that. After eating, Kunta hung around for awhile hoping that something more might be said by Binta, but

when she acted as if she hadn't even told him anything, hereluctantly left the hut and made his way with slow steps toOmoro's hut, where he stood outside with folded hands. WhenOmoro emerged and silently handed his son a small newslingshot, Kunta's breath all but stopped. He stood lookingdown at it, then up at his father, not knowing what to say. "Thisis yours as one of the second kafo. Be sure you don't shootthe wrong thing, and that you hit what you shoot at."

Kunta just said,

"Yes, Fa," still tongue-tied beyond that. "Also, as you are nowsecond kafo," Omoro went on, "it means you will begintending goats and going to school. You go goat-herding todaywith Toumani Touray. He and the other older boys will teachyou. Heed them well. And tomorrow morning you will go to theschoolyard." Omoro went back into his hut, and Kunta dashedaway to the goat pens, where he found his friend Sitafa andthe rest of his kafo, all in their new dundikos and clutching theirnew slingshots--uncles or older brothers having made them forboys whose fathers were dead. The older boys were openingthe pens and the bleating goats were bounding forth, hungryfor the day's grazing. Seeing Toumani, who was the first son ofthe couple who were Omoro's and Binta's best friends, Kuntatried to get near him, but Toumani and his mates were allherding the goats to bump into the smaller boys, who weretrying to scramble out of the way. But soon the laughing olderboys and the wuolo dogs had the goats hurrying down thedusty path with Kunta's kafo running uncertainly behind,

clutching their slingshots and trying to brush the dirtied spotsoff their dundikos. As familiar with goats as Kunta was, he hadnever realized how fast they ran. Except for a few walks withhis father, he had never been so far beyond the village as thegoats were leading them--to a wide grazing area of low brushand grass with the forest on one side and the fields of villagefarmers on the other. The older boys each nonchalantly settheir own herds to grazing in separate grassy spots, while thewuolo dogs walked about or lay down near the goats. Toumanifinally decided to take notice of Kunta tagging along behindhim, but he acted as if the smaller boy was some kind ofinsect. "Do you know the value of a goat?" he asked, andbefore Kunta could admit he wasn't sure, he said, "Well, if youlose one, your father will let you knowl" And Toumani launchedinto a lecture of warnings about goat herding Foremost wasthat if any boy's attention or laziness let any goat stray awayfrom its herd, no end of horrible things could happen. Pointingtoward the forest, Toumani said that, for one thing, living justover there, and often creeping on their bellies through the highgrass, were lions and panthers, which, with but a single springfrom the grass, could tear a goat apart. "But if a boy is closeenough," said Toumani, "he is tastier than a goat!" NotingKunta's wide eyes with satisfaction, Toumani went on: Even aworse danger than lions and panthers were toubob and theirblack slatee helpers, who would crawl through the tall grass tograb people and take them off to a distant place where theywere eaten. In his own five rains of goat herding he said, nineboys from Juffure had been taken, and many more fromneighboring villages. Kunta hadn't known any of the boys who

had been lost from Juffure, but he remembered being soscared when he heard about them that for a few days hewouldn't venture more than a stone's throw from his mother'shut. "But you're not safe even inside the village gates," saidToumani, seeming to read his thoughts. A man he knew fromJuffure, he told Kunta, deprived of everything he owned whena pride of lions killed his entire herd of goats, had beencaught with toubob money soon after the disappearance oftwo third-kafo boys from their own huts one night. He claimedthat he had found the money in the forest, but the day beforehis trial by the Council of Elders, he himself had disappeared."You would have been too young to remember this," saidToumani."But such things still happen. So never get out ofsight of somebody you trust. And when you're out here withyour goats, never let them go where you might have to chasethem into deep bush, or your family may never see you again."As Kunta stood quaking with fear, Toumani added that even ifa big cat or a toubob didn't get him, he could still get intoserious trouble if a goat got away from the herd, because aboy could never catch a dodging goat once it got ontosomeone's nearby farm of couscous and ground nuts Andonce the boy and his dog were both gone after it, theremaining flock might start running after the strayed one, andhungry goats could ruin a farmer's field quicker even thanbaboons, antelopes, or wild pigs. By noontime, when Toumanishared the lunch his mother had packed for him and Kunta,the entire new second kafo had gained a far greater respectfor the goats they had been around all of their lives. Aftereating, some of Toumani's kafo lounged under small trees

nearby, and the rest walked around shooting birds with theirstudents' untried slingshots. While Kunta and his matesstruggled to look after the goats, the older boys yelled outcautions and insults and held their sides with laughter at theyounger boys' frantic shoutings and dashings toward any goatthat as much as raised its head to look around. When Kuntawasn't running after the goats, he was casting nervousglances toward the forest in case anything was lurking there toeat him. In the midafternoon, with the goats nearing their fill ofgrass, Toumani called Kunta over to him and said sternly, "Doyou intend me to collect your wood for you?" Only then didKunta remember how many times he had seen the goatherdsreturning in the evening, each of them bearing a head load oflight wood for the night fires of the village. With the goats andthe forest to keep an eye on, it was all Kunta and his matescould do to run around looking for and picking up light brushand small fallen limbs that had become dry enough to burnwell. Kunta piled his wood up into a bundle as large as hethought his head could carry, but Toumani scoffed and threwon a few more sticks. Then Kunta tied a slender green lianavine about the wood, doubtful that he could get it onto hishead, let alone all the distance to the village. With the olderboys observing, he and his mates somehow managed to hoisttheir head loads and to begin more or less following the wuolodogs and the goats, who knew the homeward trail better thantheir new herdsmen did. Amid the older boys' scornfullaughter, Kunta and the others kept grabbing at their headloads to keep them from falling off. The sight of the village hadnever been prettier to Kunta, who was bone-weary by now; but

no sooner had they stepped inside the village gates when theolder boys set up a terrific racket, yelling out warnings andinstructions and jumping around so that all of the adults withinview and hearing would know that they were doing their joband that their day of training these clumsy younger boys hadbeen a -most trying experience for them. Kunta's head loadsomehow safely reached the yard of Brima Cesay, thearafang, whose education of Kunta and his new kafo wouldbegin the next morning. Just after breakfast, the newherdsmen--each, with pride, carrying a cottonwood writingslate, a quill, and a section of bamboo cane containing soot tomix with water for ink--trooped anxiously into the schoolyard.Treating them as if they were even more stupid than theirgoats, the arafang ordered the boys to sit down. Hardly hadhe uttered the words when he began laying about among themwith his limber stick, sending them scrambling--their firstobedience to his command not having come as quickly as hewanted. Scowling, he further warned them that for as long asthey would attend his classes, anyone who made so much asa sound, unless asked to speak, would get more of the rod--he brandished it fiercely at them--and be sent home to hisparents. And the same would be dealt out to any boy who wasever late for his classes, which would be held after breakfastand again just after their return with the goats. "You are nolonger children, and you have responsibilities now," said thearafang. "See to it that you fulfill them." With these disciplinesestablished, he announced that they would begin thatevening's class with his reading certain verses of the Koran,which they would be expected to memorize and recite before

proceeding to other things. Then he excused them, as hisolder students, the former goatherds, began arriving. Theylooked even more nervous than Kunta's kafo, for this was theday for their final examinations in Koranic recitations and inthe writing of Arabic, the results of which would bear heavilyupon their being formally advanced into the status of thirdkafo. That day, all on their own for the first time in their lives,Kunta's kafo managed to get the goats un penned and trottingin a ragged line along the trail out to the grazing area. For agood while to come, the goats probably got less to eat thanusual, as Kunta and his mates chased and yelled at themevery time they took a few steps to a new clump of grass. ButKunta felt even more hounded than his herd. Every time he satdown to sort out the meaning of these changes in his life,there seemed to be something he had to do, someplace hehad to go. What with the goats all day, the arafang afterbreakfast and after herding, and then whatever slingshotpractice he could fit in before darkness, he could never seemto find the time for any serious thinking any more.

CHAPTER 11

The harvesting of ground nuts and couscous was complete,and the women's rice came next. No men helped their wives;even boys like Sitafa and Kunta didn't help their mothers, forrice was women's work alone. The first light of dawn foundBinta with Jankay Touray and the other women bending intheir ripe fields and chopping off the long golden stalks, whichwere left to dry for a few days on the walkway before being

loaded into canoes and taken to the village, where the womenand their daughters would stack their neat bundles in eachfamily's storehouse. But there was no rest for the women evenwhen the rice harvesting was done, for then they had to helpthe men to pick the cotton, which had been left until last so thatit would dry as long as possible under the hot sun and thusmake better thread for the women's sewing. With everyonelooking forward to Juffure's annual seven- day harvest festival,the women hurried now to make new clothes for their families.Though Kunta knew better than to show his irritation, he wasforced for several evenings to tend his talky, pesty little brotherLamin while Binta spun her cotton. But Kunta was happyagain when she took him with her to the village weaver,Dembo Dibba, whom Kunta watched in fascination as herrickety hand- and-foot loom wove the spindles of thread intostrips of cotton cloth. Back at home, Binta let Kunta tricklewater through wood ashes to make the strong lye into whichshe mixed finely pounded indigo leaves to dye her cloth deepblue. All of "tuffure's women were doing the same, and soontheir cloth was spread across low bushes to dry, festooningthe village with splashes of rich color--red, green, and yellowas well as blue. While the women spun and sewed, the menworked equally hard to finish their own appointed tasks beforethe harvest festival--and before the hot season made heavywork impossible. The village's tall bamboo fence was patchedwhere it was sagging or broken from the back scratching ofthe goats and bullocks. Repairs were made on mud huts thathad been damaged by the big rains, and new thatchingreplaced the old and worn. Some couples, soon to marry,

required new homes, and Kunta got the chance to join theother children in stomping water-soaked dirt into the thick,smooth mud that the men used to mold walls for the new huts.Since some muddy water had begun to appear in the bucketsthat were pulled up from the well, one of the men climbeddown and found that the small fish that was kept in the well toeat insects had died in the murky water. So it was decidedthat a new well must be dug. Kunta was watching as the menreached shoulder depth in the new hole, and passed upwardseveral egg-sized lumps of a greenish-white clay. They weretaken immediately to those women of the village whosebellies were big, and eaten eagerly. That clay, Binta told him,would give a baby stronger bones. Left to themselves, Kunta,Sitafa, and their mates spent most of their free hours racingabout the village playing hunter with their new slingshots.Shooting at nearly every- thing--and fortunately hitting almostnothing--the boys made enough noise to scare off a forest ofanimals. Even the smaller children of Lamin's kafo rompedalmost unattended, for no one in Juffure was busier than theold grandmothers, who worked often now until late at night tosupply the demands of the village's unmarried girls forhairpieces to wear at the harvest festival. Buns, plaits, and fullwigs were woven of long fibers picked carefully from rottingsisal leaves or from the soaked bark of the baobab tree. Thecoarser sisal hairpieces cost much less than those made fromthe softer, silkier fiber of the baobab whose weaving took somuch longer that a full wig might cost as much as three goats.But the customers always haggled long and loudly, knowingthat the grandmothers charged less if they enjoyed an hour or

so of good, tongue-clacking bargaining before each sale.Along with her wigs, which were especially well made, old NyoBoto pleased every woman in the village with her noisydefiance of the ancient tradition that decreed women shouldalways show men the utmost of respect. Every morning foundher squatted comfortably before her hut, stripped to the waist,enjoying the sun's heat upon her tough old hide and busilyweaving hairpieces--but never so busily that she failed tonotice every passing man. "Hah!" she would call out, "Look atthat! They call themselves men! Now, in my day, men weremen!" And the men who passed--expecting what alwayscame--would all but run to escape her tongue, until finally NyoBoto fell asleep in the afternoon, with her weaving in her lapand the toddlers in her care laughing at her loud snoring. Thesecond-kafo girls, meanwhile, were helping their mothers andbig sisters to collect bamboo baskets full of ripe medicinalroots and cooking spices, which they spread under the sun todry. When grains were being pounded, the girls brushed awaythe husks and chaff. They helped also with the family washing,beating against rocks the soiled clothing that had beenlathered with the rough, reddish soap the mothers had madefrom lye and palm oil. The men's main work done--only a fewdays before the new moon that would open the harvest festivalin all of The Gambia's villages--the sounds of musicalinstruments began to be heard here and there in Juffure. Asthe village musicians practiced on their twenty-four-stringedkoras, their drums, and their balafons--melodious instrumentsmade of gourds tied beneath wooden blocks of variouslengths that were struck with mallets--little crowds would

gather around them to clap and listen. While they played,Kunta and Sitafa and their mates, back from their goatherding would troop about blowing bamboo flutes, ringingbells, and rattling dried gourds. Most men relaxed now, talkingand squatting about in the shade of the baobab. Those ofOmoro's age and younger kept respectfully apart from theCouncil of Elders, who were making their annual pre festivaldecisions on important village business. Occasionally two orthree of the younger men would rise, stretch themselves, andgo ambling about the village with their small fingers linkedloosely in the age-old yayo manner of African men. But a fewof the men spent long hours alone, patiently carving on piecesof wood of different sizes and shapes. Kunta and his friendswould sometimes even put aside their slings just to standwatching as the carvers created terrifying and mysteriousexpressions on masks soon to be worn by festival dancers.Others carved human or animal figures with the arms and legsvery close to the body, the feet flat, and the heads erect. Bintaand the other women snatched what little relaxation they couldaround the village's new well, where they came every day for acool drink and a few minutes of gossip. But with the festivalnow upon them, they still had much to do. Clothing had to befinished, huts to be cleaned, dried foods to be soaked, goatsto be slaughtered for roasting. And above all, the women hadto make themselves look their very best for the festival. Kuntathought that the big tomboyish girls he had so often seenscampering up trees looked foolish now, the way they wentabout acting coy and fluttery. They couldn't even walk right.And he couldn't see why the men would turn around to watch

them--clumsy creatures who couldn't even shoot a bow andarrow if they tried. Some of these girls' mouths, he noticed,were swelled up to the size of a fist. where the inner lips hadbeen pricked with thorns and rubbed black with soot. EvenBinta, along with every other female in the village over twelverains old, was nightly boiling and then cooling a broth of freshlypounded fudano leaves in which she soaked her feet--and thepale palms of her hands--to an inky blackness. When Kuntaasked his mother why, she told him to run along. So he askedhis father, who told him, "The more blackness a woman has,the more beautiful she is." "But why?" asked Kunta."Someday," said Omoro, "you will understand."

CHAPTER 12

Kunta leaped up when the tobalo sounded at dawn. Then he,Sitafa, and their mates were running among grownups to thesilk-cotton tree, where the village drummers were alreadypounding on the drums, barking and shouting at them as ifthey were live things, their hands a blur against the tautgoatskins. The gathering crowd of costumed villagers, one byone, soon began to respond with slow movements of theirarms, legs, and bodies, then faster and faster, until almosteveryone had joined the dancing. Kunta had seen suchceremonies for many plantings and harvests, for men leavingto hunt, for weddings, births, and deaths, but the dancing hadnever moved him--in a way he neither understood nor wasable to resist--as it did now. Every adult in the village seemedto be saying with his body something that was in his or her

mind alone. Among the whirling, leaping, writhing people,some of them wearing masks, Kunta could scarcely believehis eyes when he saw tough old Nyo Boto suddenly shriekingwildly, jerking both of her hands before her face, then lurchingbackward in fear at some unseen terror. Snatching up animaginary burden, she thrashed and kicked the air until shecrumpled down. Kunta turned this way and that, staring atdifferent people he knew among the dancers. Under one ofthe horrifying masks, Kunta recognized the alimamo, flingingand winding himself again and again like some serpentaround a tree trunk. He saw that some of those he had heardwere even older than Nyo Boto had left their huts, stumblingout on spindly legs, their wrinkled arms flapping, their rheumyeyes squinting in the sun, to dance a few unsteady steps.Then Kunta's eyes widened as be caught sight of his ownfather. Omoro's knees were churning high, his feet stompingup dust. With ripping cries, he reared backward, musclestrembling, then lunged forward, hammering at his chest, andwent leaping and twisting in the air, landing with heavy grunts;The pounding heartbeat of the drums seemed to throb not onlyin Kunta's ears but also in his limbs. Almost without hisknowing it, as if it were a dream, he felt his body begin toquiver and his arms to flail, and soon he was springing andshouting along with the others, whom he had ceased to notice.Finally he stumbled and fell, exhausted. He picked himself upand walked with weak knees to the sidelines--feeling a deepstrangeness that he had never known before. Dazed,frightened, and excited, he saw not only Sitafa but also othersof their kafo out there dancing among the grownups, and

Kunta danced again. From the very young to the very old, thevillagers danced on through the entire day, they and thedrummers stopping for neither food nor drink but only to catchfresh breath. But the drums were still beating when Kuntacollapsed into sleep that night. The festival's second daybegan with a parade for the people of honor just after the noonsun. At the head of the parade were the arafang, the alimamo,the senior elders, the hunters, the wrestlers, and those otherswhom the Council of Elders had named for their importantdeeds in Juffure since the last harvest festival. Everyone elsecame trailing behind, singing and applauding, as themusicians led them out in a snaking line beyond the village.And when they made a turn around the travelers' tree, Kuntaand his kafo dashed ahead, formed their own pa- fade, andthen trooped back and forth past the marching adults,exchanging bows and smiles as they went, stepping briskly intime with their flutes, bells, and rattles. The parading boys tookturns at being the honored person; when it. was Kunta's turn,he pranced about, lifting his knees high, feeling very importantindeed. In passing the grownups, he caught both Omoro's andBinta's eyes and knew they were proud of their son. Thekitchen of every woman in the village offered a variety of foodin open invitation to anyone who passed by and wished tostop a moment and enjoy a plateful. Kunta and his kafogorged themselves from many calabashes of delicious stewsand rice. Even roasted meats--goats and game from theforest--were in abundance; and it was the young girls' specialduty to keep bamboo baskets filled with every available fruit.When they weren't stuffing their bellies, the boys darted out to

the travelers' tree to meet the exciting strangers who nowentered the village. Some stayed overnight, but most tarriedonly a few hours before moving on to the next village's festival.The visiting Senegalese set up colorful displays with bolts ofdecorated cloth. Others arrived with heavy sacks of the verybest quality Nigerian kola nuts, the grade and size of eachdetermining the price. Traders came up the belong in boatsladen with salt bars to exchange for indigo, hides, beeswax,and honey. Nyo Boto was herself now busily selling--for acowrie shell apiece--small bundles of cleaned and trimmedlemongrass roots, whose regular rubbing against the teethkept the breath sweet and the mouth fresh. Pagan tradershurried on past Juffure, not even stopping, for their wares oftobacco and snuff and mead beer were for infidels only, sincethe Moslem Mandinkas never drank nor smoked. Others whoseldom stopped, bound as they were for bigger villages, werenumerous footloose young men from other villages--as someyoung men had also left Juffure during the harvest season.Spotting them as they passed on the path beyond the village,Kunta and his mates would run alongside them for a whiletrying to see what they carried in their small bamboo headbaskets Usually it was clothing and small gifts for new friendswhom they expected to meet in their wanderings, beforereturning to their home villages by the next planting season.Every morning the village slept and awakened to the sound ofdrums. And every day brought different 'traveling musicians--experts on the Koran, the balafon, and the drums. And if theywere flattered enough by the gifts that were pressed uponthem, along with the dancing and the cheers and clapping of

the crowds, they would stop and play for a while beforemoving on to the next village. When the story-telling griotscame, a quick hush would fall among the villagers as they sataround the baobab to hear of ancient kings and family clans,of warriors, of great battles, and of legends of the past. Or areligious griot would shout prophecies and warnings thatAlmighty Allah must be appeased, and then offer to conductthe necessary--and by now, to Kunta, familiar--ceremonies inreturn for a small gift. In his high voice, a singing griot sangendless verses about the past splendors of the kingdoms ofGhana, Songhai, and Old Mali, and when he finished, somepeople of the village would often privately pay him to sing thepraises of their own aged parents at their huts. And the peoplewould applaud when the old ones came to their doorways andstood blinking in the bright sunshine with wide, toothless grins.His good deeds done, the singing griot reminded everyonethat a drum talk message--and a modest offering--wouldquickly bring him to Juffure any time to sing anyone's praisesat funerals, weddings, or other special occasions. And then hehurried on to the' next village. It was during the harvestfestival's sixth afternoon when suddenly the sound of a strangedrum cut through Juffure. Hearing the insulting words spokenby the drum, Kunta hurried outside and joined the othervillagers as they gathered angrily beside the baobab. Thedrum, obviously quite nearby, had warned of oncomingwrestlers so mighty that any so-called wrestlers in Juffureshould hide. Within minutes, the people of Juffure cheered astheir own drum sharply replied that such foolhardy strangerswere asking to get crippled, if not worse. The villagers rushed

now to the wrestling place. As Juffure's wrestlers slipped intotheir brief dalas with the rolled- cloth handholds on the sidesand buttocks, and smeared themselves with a slippery pasteof pounded baobab leaves and wood ashes, they heard theshouts that meant that then" challengers had arrived. Thesepowerfully built strangers never glanced at the jeering crowd.Trotting behind their drummer, they went directly to thewrestling area, clad already in their dalas, and began rubbingone another with their own slippery paste. When Juffure'swrestlers appeared behind the village drummers, the crowd'sshouting and jostling became so unruly that both drummershad to implore them to remain calm. Then both drums spoke:"Ready!" The rival teams paired off, each two wrestlerscrouching and glaring face to face. "Take hold! Take hold!" thedrums ordered, and each pair of wrestlers began a catlikecircling. Both of the drummers now went darting here andthere among the stalking men; each drummer was poundingout the names of that village's ancestral champion wrestlers,whose spirits were looking on. With lightning feints, one afteranother pair finally seized hold and began to grapple. Soonboth teams struggled amid the dust clouds their feet kickedup, nearly hiding them from the wildly yelling spectators.Dogfalls or slips didn't count; a victory came only when onewrestler pulled another off balance, thrust him bodily upward,and hurled him to the ground. Each time there came a fall--firstone of Juffure's champions, then one of the challengers--thecrowd jumped and screamed, and a drummer pounded outthat winner's name. Just beyond the excited crowd, of course,Kunta and his mates were wrestling among themselves. At

last it was over, and Juffure's team had won by a single fall.They were awarded the horns and hooves of a freshlyslaughtered bullock. Big chunks of the meat were put to roastover a fire, and the brave challengers were invited warmly tojoin the feasting. The people congratulated the visitors on theirstrength, and unmarried maidens tied small bells around all ofthe wrestlers' ankles and upper arms. And during the feastingthat followed, Juffure's third-kafo boys swept and brushed tosmoothness the wrestling area's reddish dust to prepare it fora seoruba. The hot sun had just begun to sink when thepeople again assembled around the wrestling area, now alldressed in their best. Against a low background of drums,both wrestling teams leaped into the ring and began to crouchand spring about, their muscles rippling and their little bellstinkling as the onlookers admired their might and grace. Thedrums suddenly pounded hard; now the maidens ran out intothe ring, weaving coyly among the wrestlers as the peopleclapped. Then the drummers began to beat their hardest andfastest rhythm--and the maidens' feet kept pace. One girl afteranother, sweating and exhausted, finally stumbled from thering, flinging to the dust her colorfully dyed tiko head wrap Alleyes watched eagerly to see if the marriageable man wouldpick up that tiko, thus showing his special appreciation of thatmaiden's dance--for it could mean he meant soon to consulther father about her bridal price in goats and cows. Kunta andhis mates, who were too young to understand such things,thought the excitement was over and ran off to play with theirslingshots. But it had just begun, for a moment later, everyonegasped as a tiko was picked up by one of the visiting

wrestlers. This was a major event--and a happy one--but thelucky maiden would not be the first who was lost throughmarriage to another village.

CHAPTER 13

On the final morning of the festival, Kunta was awakened bythe sound of screams. Pulling on his dundiko, he went dashingout, and his stomach knotted with fright. Before several of thenearby huts, springing up and down, shrieking wildly andbrandishing spears, were halfa dozen men in fierce masks,tall headdresses, and costumes of leaf and bark. Kuntawatched in terror as one man entered each hut with a roar andemerged jerking roughly by the arm a trembling boy of thethird kafo. Joined by a cluster of his own equally terrifiedsecond- kafo mates, Kunta peered with wide eyes around thecorner of a hut. A heavy white cotton hood was over the headof each third-kafo boy. Spying Kunta, Sitafa, and their group oflittle boys, one of the masked men dashed toward themwaving his spear and shouting fearfully. Though he stoppedshort and turned back to his hooded charge, the boysscattered, squealing in horror. And when all of the village'sthird-kafo boys had been collected, they were turned over toslaves, who took them by the hand and led them, one by one,out the village gate. Kunta had heard that these older boyswere going to be taken away from Juffure for their manhoodtraining, but he had no idea that it would happen like this. Thedeparture of the third-kafo boys, along with the men whowould conduct their manhood training, cast a shadow of

sadness upon the entire village. In the days that followed,Kunta and his mates could talk of nothing but the terrifyingthings they had seen, and of the even more terrifying thingsthey had overheard about the mysterious manhood training. Inthe mornings, the arafang rapped their heads for their lack ofinterest in memorizing the Koranic verses. And after school,trooping along behind their goats out into the bush Kunta andhis mates each tried not to think about what each could notforget--that he would be among Juflfure's next group ofhooded boys jerked and kicked out through the village gate.They all had heard that a full twelve moons would pass beforethose third-kafo boys would return to the village--but then asmen. Kunta said that someone had told him that the boys inmanhood training got heatings daily. A boy named Karamosaid they were made to hunt wild animals for food; and Sitafasaid they were sent out alone at night into the deep forest, tofind their own way back. But the worst thing, which none ofthem mentioned, although it made Kunta nervous each timehe had to relieve himself, was that during the manhoodtraining a part of his foto would be cut off. After a while, themore they talked, the idea of manhood training became sofrightening that the boys slopped talking about it, and each ofthem tried to conceal his fears within himself, not wanting toshow that he wasn't brave. Kunta and his mates had gottenmuch better at goat- herding since their first anxious days outin the bush. But they still had much to learn. Their job, theywere beginning to discover, was hardest in the mornings,when swarms of biting flies kept the goats bolting this way andthat, quivering their skins and switching their stubby tails as

the boys and the dogs nrshed about trying to herd themtogether again. But before noon, when the sun grew so hotthateven the flies sought cooler places, the tired goats settleddown to serious grazing, and the boys could finally enjoythemselves. By now they were crack shots with theirslingshots--and also with the new bows and arrows theirfathers had given them on graduating to the second kafo--andthey spent an hour or so killing every small creature they couldfind: hares, ground squirrels, bush rats, lizards, and one day atricky spur fowl that tried to decoy Kunta away from her nest bydragging a wing as if it had been injured. In the earlyafternoon, the boys skinned and cleaned the day's game,rubbing the insides with the salt they always carried, and then,building a fire, roasted themselves a feast. Each day out in thebush seemed to be hotter than the day before. Earlier andearlier, the insects stopped biting the goats to look for shade,and the goats bent down on their knees to get at the shortgrass that remained green beneath the parched taller grass.But Kunta and his mates hardly noticed the heat. Glisteningwith sweat, they played as if each day were the most excitingone in their lives. With their bellies tight after the afternoonmeal, they wrestled or raced or sometimes just yelled andmade faces at one another, taking turns at keeping a wary eyeon the grazing goats. Playing at war, the boys clubbed andspeared each other with thick-rooted weeds until someoneheld up a handful of grass as a sign of peace. Then theycooled off their warrior spirits by rubbing their feet with thecontents of the stomach of a slaughtered rabbit; they hadheard in the grandmothers' stories that real warriors used the

stomach of a lamb. Sometimes Kunta and his mates rompedwith their faithful wuolo dogs, which Mandinkas had kept forcenturies, for they were known as one of the very finest breedsof hunting and guard dogs in all of Africa. No man could countthe goats and cattle that had been saved on dark nights fromkiller hyenas by the howling of the wuolos. But hyenas weren'tthe game stalked by Kunta and his mates when they played atbeing huntsmen. In their imaginations, as they crept about inthe tall, sun-baked grass of the savanna, their quarry wererhinoceros, elephant, leopard, and the mighty lion.Sometimes, as a boy followed his goats around in theirsearch for grass and shade, he would find himself separatedfrom his mates. The first few times it happened to him, Kuntaherded up his goats as quickly as he could and headed backto be near Sitafa. But soon he began to like these moments ofsolitude, for they gave him the chance to stalk some greatbeast by himself. It was no ordinary antelope, leopard, or evenlion that he sought in his daydreaming; it was that most fearedand dangerous of al beasts--a maddened buffalo. The one hetracked had spread" so much terror throughout the land thatmany hunters had been sent to kill the savage animal, but theyhad managed only 'to wound it, and one after another, it hadgored them with its wicked horns. Even more bloodthirsty thanbefore with its painful wound, the buffalo had then chargedand killed several farmers from Juffure who had been workingon their fields outside the village. The famed simbon KuntaKinte had been deep in the forest, smoking out a bee's nest tosustain his energy with rich honey, when he heard the distantdrum talk begging him to save the people of the village of his

birth. He could not refuse. Not even a blade of the dry grasscrackled under his feet, so silently did he stalk for signs of thebuffalo's trail, using the sixth sense that told master simbonswhich way animals would travel. And soon he found the trackshe sought; they were larger than any he had ever seen. Nowtrotting silently, he drew deeply into his nostrils the foul smellthat led him to giant, fresh buffalo dung. And maneuvering nowwith all the craft and skill at his command, simbon Kinte finallyspotted the huge bulk of the beast himself--it would have beenconcealed from ordinary eyes--hiding in the dense, highgrass. Straining back his bow, Kinte took careful aim--andsent the arrow thudding home. The buffalo was badlywounded now, but more dangerous than ever. Springingsuddenly from side to side, Kinte evaded the beast'sdesperate, stricken charge and braced himself as it wheeledto charge again. He fired his second arrow only when he hadto leap aside at the last instant--and the huge buffalo crasheddown dead. Kinte's piercing whistle brought from hiding, awedand trembling, those previous hunters who had failed wherehe had gloriously succeeded. He ordered them to remove thehuge hide and horns and to summon still more men to helpdrag the carcass all the way back to Juffure. The joyouslyshouting people had laid down a pathway of hides within thevillage gate so that Kinte would not get dust upon his feet."Simbon Kinte!" the talking drum beat out. "Simbon Kinte!"the children shouted, waving leafy branches above theirheads. Everyone was pushing and shoving and trying to touchthe mighty hunter so that some of his prowess might rub off onthem. Small boys danced around the huge carcass, re-

enacting the kill with wild cries and long sticks. And now,walking toward him from amid the crowd, came the strongest,most graceful, and most beautifully black of all the maidens inJuffure--indeed, in all of The Gambia--and kneeling beforehim, she offered a calabash of cool water; but Kinte, notthirsty, merely wet his fingers, to favor her, whereupon shedrank that water with happy tears, thus showing to everyonethe fullness of her love. The clamoring crowd was spreading--making way for aged, wrinkled, gray-headed Omoro andBinta, who came tottering against their canes. The simbonpermitted his old mother to embrace him while Omoro lookedon, eyes filled with pride. And the people of Juffure chanted"Kintel Kinte!" Even the dogs were barking their acclaim. Wasthat his own wuolo dog barking? "Kinte! Kinte!" Was thatSitafa yelling frantically? Kunta snapped out of it just in time tosee his forgotten goats bounding toward someone's farm.Sitafa and his other mates and their dogs helped to herd themup again before any damage was done, but Kunta was soashamed that a whole moon went by before he drifted off intoany more such daydreams.

CHAPTER 14

As hot as the sun already was, the five long moons of the dryseason had only begun. The heat devils shimmered, makingobjects larger in the distance, and the people sweated in theirhuts almost as much as they did in the fields. Before Kunta lefthome each morning for his goat- herding, Binta saw that heprotected his feet well with red palm oil, but each afternoon,

when he returned to the village from the open bush, his lipswere parched and the soles of his feet were dry and crackedby the baking earth beneath them. Some of the boys camehome with bleeding feet, but out they would go again eachmorning--uncomplaining, like their fathers--into the fierce heatof the dry grazing land, which was even worse than in thevillage. By the time the sun reached its zenith, the boys andtheir dogs and the goats all lay panting in the shade of scrubtrees, the boys too tired to hunt and roast the small game thathad been their daily sport. Mostly, they just sat and chatted ascheerfully as they could, but somehow by this time theadventure of goat herding had lost some of its excitement. Itdidn't seem possible that the sticks they gathered every daywould be needed to keep them warm at night, but once thesun set, the air turned as cold as it had been hot. And aftertheir evening meat, the people of Juffure huddled around theircrackling fires. Men of Omoro's age sat talking around onefire, and a little distance away was the fire of the elders.Around still another sat the women and the unmarried girls,apart from the old grandmothers, who told their nightly storiesto the little first-kafo children around a fourth fire. Kunta andthe other second-kafo boys were too proud to sit with thenaked first kafo of Lamin and his mates, so they squatted farenough away not to seem part of that noisy, giggling group--yet near enough to hear the old grandmothers' stories, whichstill thrilled them as much as ever. Sometimes Kunta and hismates eavesdropped on those at other fires; but theconversations were mostly about the heat. Kunta heard the oldmen recalling times when the sun had killed plants and burned

crops; how it had made the well go stale, or dry, of times whenthe heat had dried the people out like husks. This hot seasonwas bad, they said, but not as bad as many they couldremember. It seemed to Kunta that older people always couldremember something worse. Then, abruptly one day,breathing the air was like breathing flames, and that night thepeople shivered beneath their blankets with the cold creepinginto their bones. Again the next morning, they were moppingtheir faces and trying to draw a full breath. That afternoon theharmattan wind began. It wasn't a hard wind, nor even a gustywind, either of which would have helped. Instead it blew softlyand steadily, dusty and dry, day and night, for nearly halfamoon. As it did each time it came, the constant blowing of theharmattan wore away slowly at the nerves of the people ofJuffure. And soon parents were yelling more often than usualat their children, and whipping them for no good reason. Andthough bickering was unusual among the Mandinkas, hardly adaytime hour passed without loud shoutings between someadults, especially between younger husbands and wives likeOmoro and Binta. Suddenly then nearby doorways would fillwith people watching as the couple's mothers went rushinginto that hut. A moment later the shouting would grow louder,and next a rain of sewing baskets, cooking pots, calabashes,stools, and clothes would be hurled out the door. Then,bursting out themselves, the wife and her mother would snatchup the possessions and go storming off to the mother's hut.After about two moons, just as it had begun, the harmattansuddenly stopped. In less than a day, the air became still, the -sky clear. Within one night, a parade of wives slipped back in

with their husbands, and their mothers-in- law wereexchanging small gifts and patching up arguments all over thevillage. But the five long moons of the dry season were onlyhalf over. Though food was still plentiful in the storehouses, themothers only cooked small quantities, for no one, not even theusually greedy children, felt like eating much. Everyone wassapped of strength by the sun's heat, and the people talkedless and went about doing only the things they had to do. Thehides of the gaunt cattle in the village were broken by lumpysores where biting flies had laid their eggs. A quietness hadcome upon the scrawny chickens that normally ran squawkingaround the village, and they lay in the dust on their sides, withtheir wings fanned out and their beaks open. Even themonkeys now were seldom seen or heard, for most of themhad gone into the forest for more shade. And the goats, Kuntanoticed, grazing less and less in the heat, had grown nervousand thin. For some reason--perhaps it was the heat, orperhaps simply because they were growing older--Kunta andhis goat herding mates, who had spent every day together outin the bush for almost six moons, now began to drift off alonewith their own small herds. It had happened for several daysbefore Kunta realized that he had never before beencompletely away from other people for any real length of time.He looked across at other boys and their goats in thedistance, scattered across the silence of the sunbaked bush.Beyond them lay the fields where the farmers were choppingthe weeds that had grown in the moons since the last harvest.The tall piles of weeds they raked to dry under the sunseemed to wave and shimmer in the beat. Wiping the sweat

from his brow, it seemed to Kunta that his people were alwaysenduring one hardship or an- other--something uncomfortableor difficult, or frightening, or threatening to life itself. He thoughtabout the burning, hot days and the cold nights that followedthem. And he thought about the rains that would come next,turning the village into a mud hole and finally submerging thewalking paths until the people had to travel in their canoesfrom place to place where usually they walked. They neededthe rain as they needed the sun, but there always seemed tobe too much or too little. Even when the goats were fat and thetrees were heavy with fruit and blossoms, he knew that wouldbe the time when the last rain's harvest would run out in thefamily storehouses and that this would bring the hungryseason, with people starving and some even dying, like hisown dearly remembered Grandma Yaisa. "The harvestseason was a happy one--and after that, the harvest festival--but it was over so soon, and then the long, hot, dry seasonwould come again, with its awful harmattan, when Binta keptshouting at him and beating on Lamin--until he almost feltsorry for his pest of a small brother. As he herded his goatsback toward the village, Kunta remembered the stories hehad heard so many times when he was as young as Lamin,about how the forefathers bad always lived through great fearsand dangers. As far back as time went, Kunta guessed, thelives of the people had been hard. Perhaps they always wouldbe. Each evening in the village now, the alimamo led theprayers for Allah to send the rains. And then one day,excitement filled Juffure when some gentle winds stirred upthe dust--for those winds meant that the rains were soon to

come. And the next morning, the people of the villagegathered out in the fields, where the farmers set afire the tallpiles of weeds they had raked up, and thick smoke coiled upover the fields. The heat was nearly unbearable, but thesweating people danced and cheered, and the firstkafochildren went racing and whooping about, each trying to catchgood-luck pieces of drifting, feathery flakes of ashes. The nextday's light winds began to sift the loose ashes over the fields,enriching the soil to grow yet another crop. The farmers nowbegan chopping busily with their hoes, preparing the longrows to receive the seeds--in this seventh planting timethrough which Kunta had lived in the endless cycle of theseasons.

CHAPTER 15

Two rains had passed, and Binta's belly was big again, andher temper was even shorter than usual. So quick was she towhack both her sons, in fact, that Kunta was grateful eachmorning when goat herding let him escape her for a fewhours, and when he returned in the afternoon, he couldn't helpfeeling sorry for Lamin, who was only old enough to get intomischief and get beaten but not old enough to get out of thehouse alone. So one day when he came home and found hislittle brother in tears, he asked Binta--not without somemisgivings--if Lamin could join him on an errand, and shesnapped "Yes!" Naked little Lamin could hardly contain hishappiness over this amazing act of kindness, but Kunta wasso disgusted with his own impulsiveness that he gave him a

good kick and a cuffing as soon as they got beyond Binta'searshot. Lamia hollered--and then followed his brother like apuppy. Every afternoon after that, Kunta found Lamin waitinganxiously at the door in hopes that his big brother would takehim out again. Kunta did, nearly every day--but not becausehe wanted to. Binta would profess such great relief at gettingsome rest from both of them that Kunta now feared a beatingif he didn't take Lamin along. It seemed as if a bad dream hadattached his naked little brother to Kunta's back like somegiant leech from the belong. But soon Kunta began to noticethat some of the kafo mates also had small brothers taggingalong behind them. Though they would play off to one side ordart about nearby, they always kept a sharp eye on their bigbrothers, who did their best to ignore them. Sometimes thebig boys would dash off suddenly, jeering back at the youngones as they scrambled to catch up with them. When Kuntaand his mates climbed trees, their little brothers, trying tofollow, usually tumbled back to the ground, and the older boyswould laugh loudly at their clumsiness. It began to be funhaving them around. Alone with Lamin, as he sometimes was,Kunta might pay his brother a bit more attention. Pinching atiny seed between his fingers, he would explain that Juffure'sgiant silk-cotton tree grew from a thing that small. Catching ahoneybee, Kunta would hold it carefully for Lamin to see thestinger; then, turning the bee around, he would explain howbees sucked the sweetness from flowers and used it to makehoney in their nests in the tallest trees. And Lamin began toask Kunta a lot of questions, most of which he would patientlyanswer. There was something nice about Lamin's feeling that

Kunta knew everything. It made Kunta feel older than his eightrains. In spite of himself, he began to regard his little brotheras something more than a pest. Kunta took great pains not toshow it, of course, but returning homeward now eachafternoon with his goats, he really looked forward to Lamin'seager reception. Once Kunta thought that he even saw Bintasmile as he and Lamin left the hut. In fact, Binta would oftensnap at her younger son, "Have your brother's manners!" Thenext moment, she might whack Kunta for something, but notas often as she used to. Binta would also tell Lamin that if hedidn't act properly, he couldn't go with Kunta, and Lamin wouldbe very good for the rest of the day. He and Lamin wouldalways leave the hut now walking very politely, hand in hand,but once outside, Kunta went dashing and whooping--withLamin racing behind him--to join the other second- and first-kafo boys. During one afternoon's romping, when a fellowgoatherd of Kunta's happened to run into Lamin, knocking himon his back, Kunta was instantly there, shoving that boyroughly aside and exclaiming hotly, "That's my brother!" Theboy protested and they were ready to exchange blows whenthe others grabbed their arms. Kunta snatched the cryingLamin by the hand and jerked him away from their staringplaymates. Kunta was both deeply embarrassed andastonished at himself for acting as he had toward his ownkafo mate--and especially over such a thing as a sniffling littlebrother. But after that day, Lamin began openly trying toimitate whatever he saw Kunta do, sometimes even with Bintaor Omoro looking on. Though he pretended not to like it, Kuntacouldn't help feeling just a little proud. When Lamin fell from a

low tree he was trying to climb one afternoon, Kuota showedhim how to do it right. At one time or another, he taught hislittle brother how to wrestle (so that Lamin could win therespect of a boy who had humiliated him in front of his kafomates; how to whistle through his fingers (though Lamin's bestwhistle was nowhere near as piercing as Kunta's; and heshowed him the kind of berry leaves from which their motherliked to make tea. And he cautioned Lamin to take the big,shiny dung beetles they always saw crawling in the hut and setthem gently outside on the ground, for it was very bad luck toharm them. To touch a rooster's spur, he told him, was evenworse luck. But however hard he tried, Kunta couldn't makeLamin understand how to tell the time of day by the position ofthe sun. "You're just too little, but you'll learn." Kunta would stillshout at him sometimes, if Lamin seemed too slow in learningsomething simple; or he would give him a slap if he was toomuch of a pest. But he would always feel so badly about it thathe might even let the naked Lamin wear his dundiko for awhile. As he grew closer to his brother, Kunta began to feelless deeply something that had often bothered him before--thegulf between his eight rains and the older boys and men ofJuffure. Indeed, scarcely a day of his life that he couldremember had ever passed without something to remind himthat he was still of the second kafo--one who yet slept in thehut of his mother. The older boys who were away now atmanhood training had always had nothing but sneers andcuffings for those of Kunta's age. And the grown men, such asOmoro and the other fathers, acted as if a second-kafo boywere something merely to be tolerated. As for the mothers,

well, often when Kunta was out in the bush, he would thinkangrily that whenever he got to be a man, he certainlyintended to put Binta in her place as a woman--although hedid intend to show her kindness and forgiveness, since afterall, she was his mother. Most irritating of all to Kunta and hismates, though, was how the second-kafo girls with whom theyhad grown up were now so quick to remind them that theywere thinking already of becoming wives. It rankled Kunta thatgirls married at fourteen rains or even younger, while boysdidn't get married until they were men of thirty rains or more. Ingeneral, being of the second kafo had always been anembarrassment to Kunta and his mates, except for theirafternoons off by themselves in the bush, and in Kunta's case,his new relationship with Lamin. Every time he and his brotherwould be walking somewhere by themselves, Kunta wouldimagine that he was taking Lamin on some journey, as mensometimes did with their sons. Now, somehow, Kunta felt aspecial responsibility to act older, with Lamin looking up tohim as a source of knowledge. Walking alongside, Laminwould ply Kunta with a steady stream of questions. "What'sthe world like?" "Well," said Kunta, "no man or canoes everjourneyed so far. And no one knows all there is to know aboutit." "What do you learn from the arafang?" Kunta recited thefirst verses of the Koran in Arabic and then said, "Now youtry." But when Lamin tried, he got badly confused--as Kuntahad known he would--and Kunta said paternally, "It takestime." "Why does no one harm owls?" "Because all our deadancestors' spirits are in owls." Then he told Lamin somethingof their late Grandma Yaisa. "You were just a baby, and cannot

remember her." "What's that bird in the tree?" "A hawk.""What does he eat?" "Mice and other birds and things." "Oh."Kunta had never realized how much he knew--but now andthen Lamin asked something of which Kunta knew nothing atall. "Is the sun on fire?" Or: "Why doesn't our father sleep withus?" At such times, Kunta would usually grunt, then stoptalking--as Omoro did when he tired of so many of Kunta'squestions. Then Lamin would say no more, since Mandinkahome training taught that one never talked to another who didnot want to talk. Sometimes Kunta would act as if he had goneinto deep private thought. Lamin would sit silently nearby, andwhen Kunta rose, so would he. And sometimes, when Kuntadidn't know the answer to a question, he would quickly dosomething to change the subject. Always, at his next chance,Kunta would wait until Lamin was out of the hut and then askBinta or Omoro the answer he needed for Lamin. He nevertold them why he asked them both so many questions, but itseemed as if they knew. In fact, they seemed to act as if theyhad begun to regard, Kunta as an older person, since he hadtaken on more responsibility with his little brother. Before long,Kunta was speaking sharply to Lamin in Binta's presenceabout things done wrongly. "You must talk clearly!" he mightsay with a snap of his fingers. Or he might whack Lamin fornot jumping swiftly enough to do anything his mother hadordered him to do. Binta acted as if she neither saw norheard. So Lamin made few moves now without either hismother's or his brother's sharp eyes upon him. And Kunta nowhad only to ask Binta or Omoro any questions of Lamin's andthey immediately told him the answer. "Why is father's

bullock's hide mat of that red color? A bullock isn't red." "Idyed the hide of the bullock with lye and crushed millet."replied Binta. "Where does Allah live?" "Allah lives where thesun comes from," said Omoro.

CHAPTER 16

"What are slaves?" Lamin asked Kunta one afternoon. Kuntagrunted and fell silent. Walking on, seemingly lost in thought,he was wondering what Lamin had overheard to prompt thatquestion. Kunta knew that those who were taken by toubobbecame slaves, and he had overheard grownups talkingabout slaves who were owned by people in Juffure. But thefact was that he really didn't know what slaves were. As hadhappened so many other times, Lam- in's questionembarrassed him into finding out more. The next day, whenOmoro was getting ready to go out after some palm wood tobuild Binta a new food storehouse, Kunta asked to join hisfather; he loved to go off anywhere with Omoro. But neitherspoke this day until they had almost reached the dark, coolpalm grove.

Then Kunta asked abruptly,

"Fa, what are slaves?" Omoro just grunted at first, sayingnothing, and for several minutes moved about in the grove,inspecting the trunks of different palms. "Slaves aren't alwayseasy to tell from those who aren't slaves," he said finally.Between blows of his bush ax against the palm he hadselected, he told Kunta that slaves' huts were roofed with

nyantang jon go and free people's huts with nyantang foro,which Kunta knew was the best quality of thatching grass. "Butone should never speak of slaves in the presence of slaves,"said Omoro, looking very stern. Kunta didn't understand why,but he nodded as if he did. When the palm tree fell, Omorobegan chopping away its thick, tough fronds. As Kuntaplucked off for himself some of the ripened fruits, he sensedhis father's mood of willingness to talk today. He thoughthappily how now he would be able to explain to Lamin allabout slaves. "Why are some people slaves and others not?"he asked. Omoro said that people became slaves in differentways. Some were born of slave mothers--and he named a fewof those who lived in Juffure, people whom Kunta knew well.Some of them were the parents of some of his own kafomates. Others, said Omoro, had once faced starvation duringtheir home villages' hungry season, and they had come toJuffure and begged to become the slaves of someone whoagreed to feed and provide for them. Still others--and henamed some of Juffure's older people--had once beenenemies and been captured as prisoners. "They becomeslaves, being not brave enough to die rather than be taken,"said Omoro. He had begun chopping the trunk of the palm intosections of a size that a strong man could carry. Though all hehad named were slaves, he said, they were all respectedpeople, as Kunta well knew. "Their rights are guaranteed bythe laws of our forefathers," said Omoro, and he explainedthat all masters had to provide their slaves with food, clothing,a house, a farm plot to work on half shares, and also a wife orhusband. "Only those who permit themselves to be are

despised," he told Kunta--those who had been made slavesbecause they were convicted murderers, thieves, or othercriminals. These were the only slaves whom a master couldbeat or otherwise punish, as he felt they deserved. "Do slaveshave to remain slaves always?" asked Kunta. "No, manyslaves buy their freedom with what they save from farming onhalf share with their masters." Omoro named some in Juffurewho had done this. He named others who had won theirfreedom by marrying into the family that owned them. To helphim carry the heavy sections of palm, Omoro made a stoutsling out of green vines, and as he worked, he said that someslaves, in fact, prospered beyond their masters. Some hadeven taken slaves for themselves, and some had becomevery famous persons. "Sundiata was one!" exclaimed Kunta.Many times, he had heard the grandmothers and the griotsspeaking of the great forefather slave general whose armyhad conquered so many enemies. Omoro grunted andnodded, clearly pleased that Kunta knew this, for Omoro alsohad learned much of Sundiata when he was Kunta's age.Testing his son, Omoro asked, "And who was Sundiata'smother?" "Sogolon, the Buffalo Woman!" said Kunta proudly.Omoro smiled, and hoisting onto his strong shoulders twoheavy sections of the palm pole within the vine sling, he beganwalking. Eating his palm fruits, Kunta followed, and nearly allthe way back to the village, Omoro told him how the greatMandinka Empire had been won by the crippled, brilliant slavegeneral whose army had begun with runaway slaves found inswamps and other hiding places. "You will learn much more ofhim when you are in manhood training," said Omoro--and the

very thought of that time sent a fear through Kunta, but also athrill of anticipation. Omoro said that Sundiata had run awayfrom his hated master, as most slaves did who didn't like theirmasters. He said that except for convicted criminals, noslaves could be sold unless the slaves approved of theintended master. "Grandmother Nyo Boto also is a slave,"said Omoro, and Kunta almost swallowed a mouthful of palmfruit. He couldn't comprehend this. Pictures flashed across hismind of beloved old Nyo Boto squatting before the door of herhut, tending the village's twelve or fifteen naked babies whileweaving baskets of twigs, and giving the sharp side of hertongue to any passing adult--even the elders, if she felt like it."That one is nobody's slave," he thought. The next afternoon,after he had delivered his goats to their pens, Kunta tookLamin home by a way that avoided their usual playmates, andsoon they squatted silently before the hut of Nyo Boto. Withina few moments the old lady appeared in her doorway, havingsensed that she had visitors. And'with but a glance at Kunta,who had always been one of her very favorite children, sheknew that something special was on his mind. Inviting theboys inside her hut, she set about the brewing of some hotherb tea for them. "How are your papa and mama?" sheasked. "Fine. Thank you for asking," said Kunta politely. "Andyou are well. Grandmother? " "I'm quite fine, indeed," shereplied. Kunta's next words didn't come until the tea had beenset before him.

Then he blurted,

"Why are you a slave, Grandmother?" Nyo Boto lookedsharply at Kunta and Lamin. Now it was she who didn't speakfor a few moments. "I will tell you," she said finally. "In my homevillage one night, very far from here and many rains ago, whenI was a young woman and wife," Nyo Boto said, she hadawakened in terror as naming grass roofs came crashingdown among her screaming neighbors. Snatching up her owntwo babies, a boy and a girl, whose father had recently died ina tribal war, she rushed out among the others--and awaitingthem were armed white slave raiders with their black slateehelpers. In a furious battle, all who didn't escape were roughlyherded together, and those who were too badly injured or tooold or too young to travel were murdered before the others'eyes, Nyo Boto began to sob, "--including my own two babiesand my aged mother." As Lamin and Kunta clutched eachother's hands, she told them how the terrified prisoners, boundneck-to-neck with thongs, were beaten and driven across thehot, hard inland country for many days. And every day, moreand more of the prisoners fell beneath the whips that lashedtheir backs to make them walk faster. After a few days, yetmore began to fall of hunger and exhaustion. Some struggledon, but those who couldn't were left for the wild animals to get.The long line of prisoners passed other villages that had beenburned and ruined, where the skulls and bones of people andanimals lay among the burned-out shells of thatch and mudthat had once been family huts. Fewer than half of those whohad begun the trip reached the village of Juffure, four daysfrom the nearest place on the Kamby Bolongo where slaveswere sold. "It was here that one young prisoner was sold for a

bag of corn," said the old woman. "That Was me. And this washow I came to be called Nyo Boto," which Kunta knew meant"bag of corn." The man who bought her for his own slave diedbefore very long, she said, "and I have lived here ever since."Lamin was wriggling in excitement at the story, and Kunta feltsomehow even greater love and appreciation than he had feltbefore for old Nyo Boto, who now sat smiling tenderly at thetwo boys, whose father and mother, like them, she had oncedandled on her knee. "Omoro, your papa, was of the first kafowhen I came to Juffure," said Nyo Boto, looking directly atKunta. "Yaisa, his mother, who was your grandmother, was myvery good friend. Do you remember her?" Kunta said that hedid and added proudly that he had told his little brother abouttheir grandma. "That is good!" said Nyo Boto. "Now I must getback to work. Run along, now." Thanking her for the tea, Kuntaand Lamin left and walked slowly back to Binta's hut, eachdeep in his own private thoughts. The next afternoon, whenKunta returned from his goat- herding, he found Lamin filledwith questions about Nyo Boto's story. Had any such fire everburned in Juffure? he wanted to know. Well, he had neverheard of any, said Kunta, and the village showed no signs of it.Had Kunta ever seen one of those white people? "Of coursenot!" he exclaimed. But he said that their father had spoken ofa time when he and his brothers had sees the-toubob andtheir ships at a point along the river. Kunta quickly changedthe subject, for he knew very little about toubob, and hewanted to think about them for himself. He wished that hecould see one of them--from a safe distance, of course, sinceeverything he'd ever heard about them made it plain that

people were better off who never got too close to them. Onlyrecently a girl out gathering herbs--and before her two grownmen out hunting--had disappeared, and every- 1 one wascertain that toubob had stolen them away. He remembered ofcourse, how when drums of other villages | warned that toubobhad either taken somebody or was 1 known to be near, themen would arm themselves and | mount a double guard whilethe frightened women quickly gathered all of the children andhid in the bush far from the village--sometimes for severaldays--until the toubob was felt to be gone. Kunta recalled oncewhen he was out with his goats in the quiet of the bush, sittingunder his favorite shade tree. He had happened to lookupward and there, to his astonishment, in the tree overhead,were twenty or thirty mon keys huddled along the thicklyleaved branches as still as statues, with their long tailshanging down. Kunta had always thought of monkeys rushingnoisily about, and he couldn't forget how quietly they had beenwatching his every move. He wished that now he might sit in atree and watch some toubob on the ground below him. Thegoats were being driven homeward the afternoon after Laminhad asked him about toubob when Kunta raised the subjectamong his fellow goatherds--and in no time they were tellingabout the things they had heard. One boy, Demba Conteh,said that a very brave uncle had once gone close enough tosmell some toubob, and they had a peculiar stink. All of theboys had heard that toubob took people away to eat them. Butsome had heard that the toubob claimed the stolen peoplewere not eaten, only put to work on huge farms. Sitafa. Sillaspat out his grandfather's answer to that: "White man's lie!"

The next chance he had, Kunta asked Omoro, "Papa, will youtell me how you and your brothers saw the tou- bob at theriver?" Quickly, he added, "The matter needs to be toldcorrectly to Lamin." It seemed to Kunta that his father nearlysmiled, but Omoro only grunted, evidently not feeling liketalking at that moment. But a few days later, Omoro casuallyinvited both Kunta and Lamin to go with him out beyond thevillage to collect some roots he needed. It was the nakedLamin's first walk anywhere with his father, and he wasoverjoyed. Knowing that Kunta's influence had brought thisabout, he held tightly onto the tail of his big brother's dundiko.Omoro told his sons that after their manhood training, his twoolder brothers Janneh and Saloum had left Juffure, and thepassing of time brought news of them as well- known travelersin strange and distant places. Their first return home camewhen drum talk all the way from Juffure told them of the birth ofOmoro's first son. They spent sleepless days and nights onthe trail to attend the naming ceremony. And gone from homeso long, the brothers joyously embraced some of their kafomates of boyhood. But those few sadly told of others goneand lost---some in burned villages, some killed by fearsomefire sticks some kidnaped, some missing while farming,hunting, or traveling--and all because of toubob. Omoro saidthat his brothers had then angrily asked him to join them on atrip to see what the toubob were doing, to see what might bedone. So the three brothers trekked for three days along thebanks of the Kamby Bolongo, keeping carefully concealed inthe bush, until they found what they were looking for. Abouttwenty great toubob canoes were moored in the river, each

big enough that its insides might hold all the people of Juffure,each with a huge white cloth tied by ropes to a tree like poleas tall as ten men. Nearby was an island, and on the islandwas a fortress. Many toubob were moving about, and blackhelpers were with them, both on the fortress and in smallcanoes. The small canoes were taking such things as driedindigo, cotton, beeswax, and hides to the big canoes. Moreterrible than he could describe, however, said Omoro, werethe heatings and other cruelties they saw being dealt out tothose who had been captured for the toubob to take away. Forseveral moments, Omoro was quiet, and Kunta sensed thathe was pondering something else to tell him. Finally he spoke:"Not as many of our people are being taken away now asthen." When Kunta was a baby, he said, the King of Barra,who ruled this part of The Gambia, had ordered that therewould be no more burning of villages with the capturing orkilling of all their people. And soon it did stop, after thesoldiers of some angry kings had burned the big canoesdown to the wate i killing all the toubob on board. "Now," saidOmoro, "nineteen guns are fired in salute to the King of Barraby every toubob canoe entering the Kamby Bolongo." He saidthat the King's personal agents now supplied most of thepeople whom the toubob took away--usually criminals ordebtors, or anyone convicted for suspicion of plotting againstthe king--often for little more than whispering. More peopleseemed to get convicted of crimes, said Omoro, whenevertoubob ships sailed in the Kamby Bolongo looking for slavesto buy. "But even a king cannot stop the stealings of somepeople from their villages," Omoro continued. "You have

known some of those lost from our village, three from amongus just within the past few moons, as you know, and you haveheard the drum talk from other villages." He looked hard at hissons, and spoke slowly. "The things I'm going to tell you now,you must hear with more than your ears for not to do what I saycan mean your being stolen away forever!" Kunta and Laminlistened with rising fright. "Never be alone when you can helpit," said Omoro; "Never be out at night when you can help it.And day or night, when you're alone, keep away from any highweeds or bush if you can avoid it." For the rest of their lives,"even when you have come to be men," said their father, theymust be on guard for toubob. "He often shoots his fire stickswhich can be heard far off. And wherever you see muchsmoke away from any villages, it is probably his cooking fires,which are too big. You should closely inspect his signs to learnwhich way the toubob went. Having much heavier footstepsthan we do, he leaves signs you will recognize as not ours: Hebreaks twigs and grasses. And when you get close where hehas been, you will find that his scent remains there. It's like awet chicken smells. And many say a toubob sends forth anervousness that we can feel. If you feel that, become quiet,for often he can be detected at some distance. " But it's notenough to know the toubob, said Omoro. "Many of our ownpeople work for him. They are slatee traitors. But withoutknowing them, there is no way to recognize them. In the bush,therefore, trust no one you don't know." Kunta and Lamin satfrozen with fear. "You cannot be told these things stronglyenough," said their father. "You must know what your unclesand I saw happening tp those who had been stolen. It is the

difference between slaves among ourselves and those whomtoubob takes away to be slaves for him." He said that theysaw stolen people chained inside long, stout, heavily guardedbamboo pens along the shore of the river. When small canoesbrought important- acting toubob from the big canoes, thestolen people were dragged outside their pens onto the sand."Their heads had been shaved, and they had been greaseduntil they shined all over. First they were made to squat andjump up and down," said Omoro. "And then, when the toubobhad seen enough of that, they ordered the stolen people'smouths forced open for their teeth and their throats to belooked at." Swiftly, Omoro's finger touched Kunta's crotch, andas Kunta jumped, Omoro said, "Then the men's foto waspulled and looked at. Even the women's private parts wereinspected. " And the toubob finally made the people squatagain and stuck burning hot irons against their backs andshoulders. Then, screaming and struggling, the people wereshipped toward the water, where small canoes waited to takethem out to the big canoes. "My brothers and I watched manyfall onto their bellies, clawing and eating the sand, as if to getone last hold and bite of their own home," said Omoro. "Butthey were dragged and beaten on." Even in the small canoesout in the water, he told Kunta and Lamin, some kept fightingagainst the whips and the clubs until they jumped into thewater among terrible long fish with gray backs and whitebellies and curved mouths full of thrashing teeth that reddenedthe water with their blood. Kunta and Lamin had huddled closeto each other, each gripping the other's hands. "It's better thatyou know these things than that your mother and I kill the white

cock one day for you." Omoro looked at his sons. "Do youknow what that means?" Kunta managed to nod, and foundhis voice. "When someone is missing, Fa?" He had seenfamilies frantically chanting to Allah as they squatted around awhite cock bleeding and flapping with its throat slit. "Yes," saidOmoro. "If the white cock dies on its breast, hope remains.But when a white cock flaps to death on its back, then no hoperemains, and the whole village joins the family in crying toAllah." "Fa"--Lamin's voice, squeaky with fear, startled Kunta,"where do the big canoes take the stolen people?" "Theelders say to Jong Sang Doo," said Omoro, "a land whereslaves are sold to huge cannibals called toubabo koomi, whoeat us. No man knows any more about it."

CHAPTER 17

So frightened was Lamin by his father's talk of slave-takingand white cannibals that he awakened Kunta several timesthat night with his bad dreams. And the next day, when Kuntareturned from goat herding he decided to turn his littlebrother's mind--and his own--from such thoughts by telling himabout their distinguished uncles. "Our father's brothers arealso the sons of Kairaba Kunta Kinte, for whom I am named,"said Kunta proudly. "But our uncles Janneh and Saloum wereborn of Sireng," he said. Lamin looked puzzled, but Kuntakept on explaining. "Sireng was our grandfather's first wife,who died before he married our Grandma YaisaJ' Kuntaarranged twigs on the ground to show the Kinte family'sdifferent individuals. But he could see that Lamin still didn't

understand. With a sigh, he began to talk instead of theiruncles' adventures, which Kunta himself had thrilled to so oftenwhen his father had told of them. "Our uncles have never takenwives for themselves because their love of traveling is sogreat," said Kunta. "For moons on end, they travel under thesun and sleep under the stars. Our father says they have beenwhere the sun burns upon endless sand, a land where there isnever any rain." In another place their uncles had visited, saidKunta, the trees were so thick that the forests were dark asnight even in the daytime. The people of this place were notaller than Lamin, and like Lamin, always went naked--evenafter they grew up. And they killed huge elephants with tiny,poisoned darts. In still another place, a land of giants, Jannehand Saloum had seen warriors who could throw their huntingspears twice as far as the mightiest Mandinka, and dancerswho could leap higher than their own heads, which were sixhands higher than the tallest man in Juffure. Before bedtime,as Lamin watched with wide eyes, Kunta acted out his favoriteof all the stories--springing suddenly about with an imaginarysword slashing up and down, as if Lamin were one of thebandits whom their uncles and others had fought off every dayon a journey of many moons, heavily laden with elephants'teeth, precious stones, and gold, to the great black city ofZimbabwe. Lamin begged for more stories, but Kunta told himto go to sleep. Whenever Kunta had been made to go to bedafter his father told him such tales, he would lie on his mat--ashis little brother now would--with his mind making the uncles'stories into pictures. And sometimes Kunta would even dreamthat he was traveling with his uncles to all the strange places,

that he was talking with the people who looked and acted andlived so differently from the Mandinkas. He had only to hearthe names of his uncles and his heart would quicken. A fewdays later, it happened that their names reached Juffure in amanner so exciting that Kunta could hardly contain himself. Itwas a hot, quiet afternoon, and just about everyone in thevillage was sitting outside his hut's doorway or in the shade ofthe baobab--when suddenly there came a sharp burst of drumtalk from the next village. Like the grownups, Kunta and Lamincocked their heads' intently to read what the drum was saying.Lamin gasped aloud when he heard his own father's name.He wasn't old enough to understand the rest, so Kuntawhispered the news it brought: Five days of walking in the waythe sun rose, Janneh and Saloum Kinte were building a newvillage. And their brother Omoro was expected for theceremonial blessing of the village on the second next newmoon. The drum talk stopped; Lamin was full of questions."Those are our uncles? Where is that place? Will our fa gothere?" Kunta didn't reply. Indeed, as Kunta dashed off acrossthe village toward the hut of the jaliba, he barely heard hisbrother. Other people were already gathering there--and thencame Omoro, with the big-bellied Binta behind him. Everyonewatched as Omoro and the jaliba spoke briefly, and Omorogave him a gift. The talking drum lay near a small fire, whereits goatskin head was heating to extreme tautness. Soon thecrowd looked on as the jaliba's hands pounded out Omoro'sreply that, Allah willing, he would be in his brothers' new villagebefore the second next new moon. Omoro went nowhereduring the next days without other villagers pressing upon him

their congratulations and their blessings for the new village,which history would record as founded by the Kinte clan. Itwasn't many days before Omoro was to depart when an ideathat was almost too big to think about seized upon Kunta. Wasit remotely possible that his papa might let him share thejourney? Kunta could think of nothing else. Noticing hisunusual quietness, Kunta's fellow goatherds, even Sitafa, lefthim alone. And toward his adoring little brother, he became soshort-tempered that even Lamin drew away, hurt and puzzled.Kunta knew how he was acting and felt badly, but he couldn'thelp himself. He knew that now and then some lucky boy wasallowed to share a journey with his father, uncle, or grownupbrother. But he also knew that such boys had never been soyoung as his eight rains, except for some fatherless boys, whogot special privileges under the forefathers' laws. Such a boycould start following closely behind any man, and the manwould never object to sharing whatever he had--even if he wason a journey lasting for moons--so long as the boy followedhim at exactly two paces, did everything he was told, nevercomplained, and never spoke unless spoken to. Kunta knewnot to let anyone, especially his mother, even suspect what hedreamed of. He felt certain that not only would Bintadisapprove, but she would also probably forbid his evermentioning it again, and that would mean Omoro would neverknow how desperately Kunta hoped he could go. So Kuntaknew that his only hope lay in asking Pa himself--if he couldever catch him alone. There were soon but three days beforeOmoro was to leave, and the watchful, almost despairingKunta was herding his goats after breakfast when he saw his

father leaving Binta's hut. Instantly he began maneuvering hisgoats into milling back and forth, going nowhere, until Omorohad gone on in a direction and to a distance that Binta surelywouldn't see. Then, leaving his goats alone, because he hadto take the chance, Kunta ran like a hare and came to abreathless stop and looked up pleadingly at his father'sstartled face. Gulping, Kunta couldn't remember a single thinghe had meant to say. Omoro looked down at his son for a longmoment, and then he spoke. "I have just told your mother," hesaid--and walked on. It took Kunta a few seconds to realizewhat his father meant. "Aieee!" Kunta shouted, not evenaware that he had shouted. Dropping onto his belly, he sprangfroglike into the air--and bolting back to his goats, sent themracing toward the bush. When he collected himself enough totell his fellow goat- herds what had happened, they were sojealous that they went off by themselves. But by midday theycould no longer resist the chance to share with him theexcitement of such wonderful luck. By that time he had fallensilent with the realization that ever since the drum talkmessage had come, his father had been thinking about hisson. Late that afternoon, when Kunta raced happily home andinto his mother's hut, Binta grabbed him without a word andbegan to cuff him so hard that Kunta fled, not daring to askwhat he had done. And her manner changed suddenly towardOmoro in a way that shocked Kunta almost as much. EvenLamin knew that a woman was absolutely never allowed todisrespect a man, but with Omoro standing where he couldplainly hear her, Binta loudly muttered her disapproval of hisand Kunta's traveling in the bush when the drums of different

villages were reporting regularly of new people missing.Fixing the breakfast couscous, she pounded the pestle intothe mortar so furiously that the sound was like drums. AsKunta was hurrying out of the hut the next day--to avoidanother whacking--Binta commanded Lamin to stay behindand began to kiss and pat and hug him as she hadn't donesince he was a baby. Lamin's eyes told Kunta hisembarrassment, but there was nothing either of them could doabout it. When Kunta was outside the hut away from hismother, practically every adult who saw him offeredcongratulations upon his being Juffure's youngest boy evergiven the honor of sharing an elder's long journey. Modestly,Kunta said, "Thank you," reflecting his proper home-training--but once out in the bush beyond the sight of grownups, hepranced under an extra-large head bundle he had broughtalong to show his mates how well he balanced it--and wouldbalance it the next morning when he strutted past he travelers'tree behind his father. It fell to the ground hree times before hetook as many steps. On his way homeward, with many thingshe wanted to lo around the village before leaving, Kunta felt astrange ull to visit old Nyo Boto before doing anything else.\after delivering his goats, he escaped from Binta's hut asIllicitly as he could and went to squat before Nyo Boto's.Shortly she appeared in her doorway. "I have expected tou,"she said, inviting him inside. As usual, whenever (until visitedher alone, the two of them just sat quietly 'or a while. He hadalways liked and looked forward to hat feeling. Although hewas very young and she was very rid, they still felt very close toeach other, just sitting there n the dim hut, each of them

thinking private thoughts. "I have something for you," said NyoBoto finally. Mov- ng to the dark pouch of cured bullock's hidethat hung Torn the wall by her bed, she withdrew a dark saphie charm of the kind that encircled one's upper arm. "Yourgrandfather blessed this charm when your father went to man-iood training," said Nyo Boto. "It was blessed for the man-lood training of Omoro's first son--yourself. Your Grand- naYaisa left it with me for when your manhood training wouldstart. And that is really this journey with your fa." Cunta lookedwith love at the dear old grandmother, but ie couldn't think of aright way to say how the sap hie harm would make him feelthat she was with him no mater how far away he went. Thenext morning, returning from prayers at the mosque, Dmorostood waiting impatiently as Binta took her time: ompleting theadjustment of Kunta's head load When Cunta had laid awaketoo filled with excitement to sleep hrough the night, he hadheard her sobbing. Then suddenly he was hugging Kunta sohard that he could feel her body rembling, and he knew, morethan ever before in his life, low much his mother really lovedhim. With his friend Sitafa, Kunta had carefully reviewed mdpracticed what he and his father now did: First Omoro nd thenKunta made two steps out into the dust beyond he doorway ofhis hut. Then, stopping and turning and lending down, theyscraped up the dust of their first footprints and put it into theirhunters' bags, thus insuring that heir footprints would return tothat place. Binta watched, weeping, from her hut's doorway,pressing Lamin against her big belly, as Omoro and Kuntawalked away. Kunta started to turn for a last look--but seeingthat his father didn't, kept his eyes front and marched on,

remembering that it wasn't proper for a man to show hisemotions. As they walked through the village, the people theypassed spoke to them and smiled, and Kunta waved at hiskafo mates, who had delayed their rounding up of the goats inorder to see him off. He knew they understood that he didn'treturn their spoken greetings because any talking now wastaboo for him. Reaching the travelers' tree, they stopped, andOmoro added two more narrow cloth strips to the weather-tattered hundreds already hanging from the lower limbs, eachstrip representing the prayer of a traveler that his journeywould be safe and blessed. Kunta couldn't believe it wasreally happening. It was the first time in his life he would spenda night away from his mother's hut, the first time he would evergo farther from the gates of Juffure than one of his goats hadstrayed, the first time--for so many things. While Kunta wasthus preoccupied, Omoro had turned and without a word or abackward glance, started walking very fast down the path intothe forest. Almost dropping his head load Kunta raced tocatch up with him.

CHAPTER 18

Kunta found himself nearly trotting to keep the proper twopaces behind Omoro. He saw that almost two of his quick,short steps were necessary for each long, smooth stride of hisfather. After about an hour of this, Kunta's excitement hadwaned almost as much as his pace. His head bundle beganto feel heavier and heavier, and he had a terrible thought:Suppose he grew so tired he couldn't keep up? Fiercely, he

told himself he would drop in his tracks before that wouldhappen. Here and there, as they passed, snuffling wild pigswould go rushing into the underbrush, and partridges wouldwhir up, and rabbits would bound for cover. But Kunta wouldn'thave paid an elephant much attention in his determination tokeep up with Omoro. The muscles below Kunta's knees werebeginning to ache a little. His face was sweating, and so washis head; he could tell by the way his bundle began sliding offbalance, a little bit one way or the other, and he kept having toput both his hands up there to readjust it. Ahead, after a while,Kunta saw that they were approaching the travelers' tree ofsome small village. He wondered what village it was; he wassure he would know its name if his father said it, but Omorohad neither spoken nor looked back ever since they leftJuffure. A few minutes later, Kunta saw dashing out to meetthem--as he himself had once done--some naked children ofthe first kafo. They were waving and hallooing, and when theygot closer, he could see their eyes widen at the sight of one soyoung traveling with his father. "Where are you going?" theychattered, scampering on either side of Kunta. "Is he your fa7""Are you Mandinka?" "What's your village?" Weary as he was,Kunta felt very mature and important, ignoring them just as hisfather was doing. Near every travelers' tree, the trail wouldfork, one leading on into the village and the other past it, sothat a person with no business there could pass on by withoutbeing considered rude. As Omoro and Kunta took the fork thatpassed by this village, the little children exclaimed unhappily,but the grownups seated under the village baobab only threwglances at the travelers, for. holding every- one's attention was

a griot whom Kunta could hear loudly orating about thegreatness of Mandinkas. There would be many griots, praisesingers, and musicians at the blessing of his uncles' newvillage, Kunta thought. The sweat began to run into Kunta'seyes, making him blink to stop the stinging. Since they hadbegun walking, the sun had crossed only half the sky, but hislegs already hurt so badly, and his head load had become soheavy, that he began to think he wasn't going to make it. Afeeling of panic was rising in him when Omoro suddenlystopped and swung his head load to the ground alongside aclear pool at the side of the trail. Kunta stood for a momenttrying to control his unsteady legs. He clutched his headbundle to take it down, but it slipped from his fingers and fellwith a bump. Mortified, he knew his father had heard--butOmoro was on his knees drinking from the spring, without asign that his son was even there. Kunta hadn't realized howthirsty he was. Hobbling over to the water's edge, he kneeleddown to drink--but his legs refused the position. After tryingagain in vain, he finally lay down on his stomach, bracedhimself on his elbows, and managed to lower his mouth to thewater. "Just a little." It was the first time his father had spokensince they left Juffure, and it shocked Kunta. "Swallow a little,wait, then a little more." For some reason, he felt angry towardhis father. "Yes, Fa," he intended to say, but no sound came.He sipped some cool water and swallowed it. Making himselfwait, he wanted to collapse. After sipping a little more, he satup and rested beside the pool. The thought passed throughhis mind that manhood training must be something like this.And then, sitting upright, he drifted off to sleep. When he

awakened with a start--how long had it been?--Omoro wasnowhere to be seen. Jumping up, Kunta saw the big headload under a nearby tree; so his father wouldn't be far away.As he began to look around, he realized how sore he was. Heshook himself and stretched. The muscles hurt, but he feltmuch better than he had. Kneeling for a few more gulps ofwater from the spring, Kunta noticed his reflection m the stillsurface of the pool--a narrow black face with wide eyes andmouth. Kunta smiled at himself, then grinned with all his teethshowing. He couldn't help laughing, and as he looked up--there was Omoro standing at his side. Kunta sprang up,embarrassed, but his father's attention seemed to be on otherthings. In the shade of some trees, neither of them speaking aword, as the monkeys chattered and the parrots screechedabove their heads, they ate some of the bread from their headloads along with the four plump wood pigeons Omoro hadshot with his bow and roasted while Kunta slept. As they ate,Kunta told himself that the first time there was any chance, hewas going to show his father how well he too could kill andcook food, the way he and his kafo mates did out in the bush.When they finished eating, the sun was three fourths acrossthe sky, so it wasn't as hot when the head loads were rctiedand readjusted on their heads and they set out on the trailonce again. "Toubob brings his canoes one day of walkingfrom here," said Omoro when they had gone a good distance."Now is daytime when we can see, but we must avoid highbush and grass, which can hide surprises." Omoro's fingerstouched his knife sheath and his bow and arrows. "Tonight wemust sleep in a village." With his father, he need not fear, of

course, but Kunta felt a flash of fright after a lifetime of hearingpeople and drums tell of disappearances and stealings. Asthey walked on--a little faster now--Kunta noticed hyena dungon the trail, its color lily-white because hyenas with their strongjaws cracked and ate so many bones. And beside the path,their approach caused a herd of antelope to stop eating andstand like statues, watching until the humans had passed by."Elephants!" said Omoro a little later, and Kunta saw thesurrounding trampled bush, the young saplings stripped tobare bark and limbs, and some half-uprooted trees theelephants had leaned on to push the topmost tender leavesdownward where they could reach them with their trunks.Since elephants never grazed near villages and people, Kuntahad seen only a few of them in his life, and then only from agreat distance. They had been among the thousands of forestanimals that ran together, sounding like thunder, ahead offrightening black smoke clouds when a great fire had sweptacross the brush land once when Kunta was very young; butAllah's rain had put it out before it harmed Juffure or any othernearby villages. As they trudged along the seemingly endlesstrail, it occurred to Kunta that just as people's walking feetmade trails, so did spiders spin the long, thin threads theytraveled on. Kunta wondered if Allah willed matters for theinsects and the animals as He did for people; it surprised himto realize he never had thought about that before. He wishedhe could ask Omoro about it right now. He was even moresurprised that Lamin hadn't asked him about it, for Lamin hadasked him about even smaller matters than insects. Well, hewould have much to tell his little brother when he returned to

Juffure--enough to fill days out in the bush with his fellowgoatherds for moons to come. It seemed to Kunta that he andOmoro were entering a different kind of country than the onewhere they lived. The sinking sun shone down on heaviergrasses than he had ever seen before, and among thefamiliar trees were large growths of palm and cactus. Apartfrom the biting flies, the only flying things he saw here were notpretty parrots and birds such as those that squawked andsang around Juffure, but circling hawks in search of prey andvultures hunting for food already dead. The orange ball of thesun was nearing the earth when Omoro and Kunta sighted athick trail of smoke from a village up ahead. As they reachedthe travelers' tree, even. Kunta could tell that something wasn'tright. Very few prayer strips hung from the limbs, showing thatfew of those who lived here ever left their village and that mosttravelers from other villages had taken the trail that passed itby. Alas, no children came running out to meet them. As theypassed by the village baobab, Kunta saw that it was partlyburned. Over half of the mud huts he could see were empty;trash was in the yards; rabbits were hopping about; and birdswere bathing in the dust. The people of the village--most ofthem leaning or lying about in the doorways of their huts--werealmost all old or sick, and a few crying babies seemed to bethe only children. Kunta saw not a person of his age--or evenas young as Omoro. Several wrinkled old men weaklyreceived the travelers. The eldest among them, rapping hiswalking stick, ordered a toothless old woman to bring thetravelers water and couscous; maybe she's a slave, thoughtKunta. Then the old men began interrupting each other in their

haste to explain what had happened to the village. Slavetakers one night had stolen or killed all of their youngerpeople, "from your rains to his!" One old man pointed atOmoro, then at Kunta. "We old they spared. We ran away intothe forest." Their abandoned. village had begun going topieces before they could bring themselves to return. They hadno crops yet, and not much food or strength. "We will die outwithout our young people," said one of the old men. Omoro,had listened closely as they talked, and his words were slowas he spoke: "My brothers' village, which is four days, distant,will welcome you, grandfathers." But all of them beganshaking their heads as the eldest said: "This is our village. Noother well has such sweet water. No other trees' shade is aspleasant. No other kitchens smell of the cooking of ourwomen." The old men apologized that they had no hospitalityhut to offer. Omoro assured them that he and his son enjoyedsleeping under the stars. And that night, after a simple meal ofbread from their head loads which they shared with thevillagers, Kunta lay on his pallet of green, springy boughs, andthought about all he had heard. Suppose it had been Juffure,with everybody he knew dead or taken away--Omoro, Binta,Lamin, and himself too, and the baobab burned, and the yardsfilled with trash. Kunta made himself think about somethingelse. Then, suddenly, in the darkness, he heard the shrieks ofsome forest creature caught by some ferocious animal, andhe thought about people catching other people. In the distancehe could also hear the howling of hyenas--but rainy season ordry, hungry or harvest, every night of his life, he had heardhyenas howling somewhere. Tonight he found their familiar cry

almost comforting as he finally drifted off to sleep.

CHAPTER 19

In the first light of dawn, Kunta came awake, springing onto hisfeet. Standing beside his pallet was a queer old womandemanding in a high, cracked voice to know what hadhappened to the food she had sent him for two moons ago.Behind Kunta, Omoro spoke softly: "We wish we could tellyou. Grandmother." As they hurried on beyond the village afterwashing and eating, Kunta remembered an old woman inJuffure who would totter about, peering closely into anyone'sface and telling him happily, "My daughter arrives tomorrow!"Her daughter had disappeared many rains before, everyoneknew, and the white cock had died on its back, but all thoseshe stopped would gently agree, "Yes, Grandmothertomorrow." Before the sun was very high, they saw ahead alone figure walking toward them on the trail. They had passedtwo or three other travelers the day before exchanging smilesand greetings but this old man, drawing near, made it clearthat he wanted to talk. Pointing from the direction he hadcome, he said, "You may see a toubob." Behind Omoro,Kunta nearly stopped breathing. "He has many peoplecarrying his head loads The old man said the toubob hadseen him and stopped him, but only sought help in finding outwhere the river began. "I told him the river begins farthest fromwhere it ends." "He meant you no harm?" asked Omoro. "Heacted very friendly," said the old man, "but the cat always eatsthe mouse it plays with." "That's the truth!" said Omoro, Kunta

wanted to ask his father about this strange toubob who camelooking for rivers rather than for people; but Omoro had badefarewell to the old man and was walking off down the footpathas usual, without a glance to see if Kunta was behind him.This time Kunta was glad, for Omoro would have seen his sonholding onto his head load with both hands while he ranpainfully to catch up. Kunta's feet had begun to bleed, but heknew it would be unmanly to take notice of it, let alone mentionit to his father. For the same reason, Kunta swallowed histerror when, later that day, they rounded a turn and came upona family of lions a big male, a beautiful female, and two half-grown cubs lounging in a meadow very near the path. ToKunta, lions were fearsome, slinking animals that would tearapart a goat that a boy permitted to stray too far in its grazing.Omoro slowed his pace, and without taking his eyes from thelions, said quietly, as if sensing his son's fear, "They don't huntor eat at this time of the day unless they're hungry. These are-fat." But he kept one hand on his bow and the other by hisquiver of arrows as they passed by. Kunta held his breath butkept walking, and he and the lions watched each other untilthey were out of sight. He would have continued to think aboutthem, and about the toubob, also somewhere in the area, buthis aching legs wouldn't let him. By that night, he would haveignored twenty lions if they had been feeding at the placeOmoro chose for them to spend the night. Kunta had barelylain down on his bed of soft branches before he was into adeep sleep--and it seemed only minutes before his father wasshaking him awake in the early dawn. Though he felt as if hehadn't slept at all, Kunta watched with unconcealed admiration

how swiftly Omoro skinned, cleaned, and roasted theirmorning meal of two hares, which he had caught in nightsnares. As Kunta squatted and ate the tasty meat, he thoughthow he and his goat herding mates used up hours of catchingand cooking game, and he wondered how his father and othermen ever found time to ever learn so much--about everythingthere was to know, it seemed. His blistered feet, and his legs,and his back, and his neck all began to hurt again this thirdday on the trail--in fact, his whole body seemed to be one dullache--but he pretended that manhood training had alreadybegun and that he would be the last boy in his kafo to betrayhis pain. When he stepped on a sharp thorn just beforemidday, Kunta bravely bit his lip to avoid crying out, but hebegan to limp and fall so far behind that Omoro decided to lethim rest for a few minutes beside the path while they ate theirafternoon meal. The soothing paste his father rubbed into thewound made it feel better, but soon after they began walkingagain, it began to hurt--and bleed--in earnest. Before long,however, the wound was filled with dirt, so the bleedingstopped, and the constant walking numbed the pain enough tolet him keep up with his father. Kunta couldn't be sure, but itseemed to him that Omoro had slowed down a tiny bit. Thearea around the wound was ugly and swollen by the time theystopped that night, but his father applied another poultice, andin the morning it looked and felt good enough to bear hisweight without too much pain. Kunta noticed with relief, asthey set out the next day, that they had left behind the thorn andcactus land they had been traveling through and were movinginto bush country more like Juffure's, with even more trees and

thickly flowering plants, and more chattering monkeys andmulticolored land birds than he had ever seen before.Breathing in the fragrant air made Kunta remember timeswhen he had taken his little brother to catch crabs down alongthe banks of the bolong, where he and Lamin would wait towave at their mother and the other women rowing homewardafter work in their rice fields. Omoro took the bypass fork atevery travelers' tree, but each village's first-kafo childrenalways raced out to meet them and to tell the strangerswhatever happened to be the most exciting of the local news.In one such village, the little couriers rushed out yelling,"Mumbo jumbo! Mumbo jumbo!," and considering their jobdone, fled back inside the village gate. The bypassing trailwent near enough for Omoro and Kunta to see thetownspeople watching a masked and costumed figurebrandishing a rod over the bare back of a screaming womanwhom several other women held. All of the women spectatorswere shrieking with each blow of the rod. From discussionswith his fellow goatherds, Kunta knew how a husband, ifenough annoyed by a quarrelsome, trouble making wife, couldgo quietly to another village and hire a mumbo jumbo to cometo his village and shout fearsomely at intervals fromconcealment, then appear and publicly discipline that wife,after which all of the village's women were apt to act better fora time. At one travelers' tree, no children came out to meet theKintes. In fact, there was no one to be seen at all, and not asound was to be heard in the silent village, except for the birdsand monkeys. Kunta wondered if slave takers had come here,too. He waited in vain for Omoro to explain the mystery, but it

was the chattering children of the next village who did so.Pointing back down the trail, they said that village's chief hadkept on doing things his people disliked until one night notlong ago, as he slept, everyone had quietly gone away with alltheir possessions to the homes of friends and families in otherplaces--leaving behind an "empty chief," the children said,who was now going about promising to act better if only hispeople would return. Since nighttime was near, Omorodecided to enter this village, and the crowd under the baobabwas abuzz with this exciting gossip. Most felt certain that theirnew neighbors would return home after they had taught theirchief his lesson for a few more days. While Kunta stuffed hisstomach with groundnut stew over steamed rice, Omoro wentto the village jaliba and arranged for a talking-drum messageto his brothers. He told them to expect him by the lext sundownand that traveling with him was his first son. Kunta hadsometimes daydreamed about bearing his lame drum-sounding across the land, and now it had hap- 'ened. Itwouldn't leave his ears. Later, on the hospitality [Ut's bamboobed, bone-weary as he was, Kunta thought if the other jalibashunched over their drums pounding out us name in everyvillage along their route to the village of anneh and Saloum. Atevery travelers' tree now, since the drums had sposen, werenot only the usual naked children but also some ilders andmusicians. And Omoro couldn't refuse a senior ilder's requestto grant his village the honor of at least a brief visit. As theKintes freshened themselves in each hospitality hut and thensat down to share food and drink in 'he shade of the baobaband silk-cotton trees, the adults gathered eagerly to hear

Omoro's answers to their questions, and the first, second, andthird kafos clustered about Kunta. While the first kafo stared athim in silent awe, those of Junta's rains and older, painfullyjealous, asked him re- ipectful questions about his homevillage and his des tina- ion. He answered them gravely with,he hoped, the same iignity as his father did their fathers'questions. By the ime they left, he was sure the villagers feltthey had seen young man who had spent most of his lifetraveling with us father along The Gambia's long trails.CHAPTER 20 hey had tarried so long at the last village thatthey would have to walk faster and harder to reach theirdestination by sundown, as Omoro had promised hisbrothers. Though he sweated and ached, Kunta found iteasier than before to keep his head load balanced, and he felta new spurt of strength with each of the drum talk messagesthat now filled the air with word of the arrival of griots, jalibas,senior elders, and other important people in the town ahead,each representing such distant home villages as Karantaba,Kootacunda, Pisania, and Jonkakonda, most of which Kuntahad never heard of. A griot from the Kingdom of Wooli wasthere, said the drums, and even a prince sent by his father, theKing of Barra. As Kunta's cracked feet padded quickly alongthe hot, dusty trail, he was amazed at how famous and popularhis uncles were. Soon he was all but running, not only to keepclose behind the ever more rapidly striding Omoro, but alsobecause these past few hours seemed to be taking forever.Finally, just as the sun began to turn crimson on the westernhorizon, Kunta spotted smoke rising from a village not farahead. The wide, circular pattern of the smoke told Kunta that

dried baobab hulls were being burned to drive awaymosquitoes. That meant the village was entertaining importantvisitors. He felt like cheering. They had arrived! Soon hebegan to hear the thunder of a big ceremonial tobalo drum--being pounded, he guessed, as each new personage enteredbetween the village gates. Intermingling was the throb ofsmaller tan-tang drums and the shriekings of dancers. Thenthe trail made a turn, and there under the rising smoke wasthe village. And alongside a bushy growth they saw a man whocaught sight of them at the same instant and began to pointand wave as if he had been posted there to await anoncoming man with a boy. Omoro waved back at the man,who immediately squatted over his drum and announced on it:"Omoro Kinte and first son"--Kunta's-feet scarcely felt theground. The travelers' tree, soon in sight, was festooned withcloth strips, and the original single-file trail had already beenwidened by many feet--evidence of an already popular andbusy village. The pounding of the tan-tangs grew louder andlouder, and suddenly the dancers appeared, grunting andshouting in their leaf-and-bark costumes, leaping and whirlingand stamping out through the village gate ahead of everyoneelse, all of them rushing to meet the distinguished visitors. Thevillage's deep-voiced tobalo began to boom as two figurescame running through the crowd. Ahead of Kunta, Omoro'shead bundle dropped suddenly to the ground, and Omoro wasrunning toward them. Before he knew it, Kunta's own headbundle had dropped and he was running too. The two menand his father were hugging and pounding each other. "Andthis is our nephew?" Both men yanked Kunta off his feet and

embraced him amid exclamations of joy. Sweeping them onto the village, the huge welcoming party cried out theirgreetings all around them, but Kunta saw and beard no onebut his uncles. They certainly resembled Omoro, but henoticed that they were both somewhat shorter, stockier, andmore muscular than his father. The older uncle Janneh's eyeshad a squinting way of seeming to look a long distance, andboth men moved with an almost animal quickness. They alsotalked much more rapidly than his father as they plied him withquestions about Juffure and about Binta. Finally, Saloumthumped his fist on Kunta's head. "Not since he got his namehave we been together. And now look at him! How many rainshave you, Kunta?" "Eight, sir," he answered politely. "Nearlyready for manhood training!" exclaimed his uncle. All aroundthe village's tall bamboo fence, dry thorn- bushes were piledup, and concealed among them were sharp-pointed stakes tocripple any marauding animal or human. But Kunta wasn'tnoticing such things, and the few others of around his age whowere there he saw only out of the corners of his eyes. Hescarcely heard the racket of the parrots and monkeys abovetheir heads, or the barking of the wuolo dogs underfoot, as theuncles took them on a tour of their beautiful new village. Everyhut had its own private yard, said Saloum, and every woman'sdry- foods storehouse was mounted directly over her cookingfire, so the smoke would keep her rice, couscous, and milletfree of bugs. Kunta almost got dizzy jerking his head towardthis or that exciting sight, smell, or sound. It was bothfascinating and confusing to overhear people speaking inMandinka dialects that he couldn't understand beyond an

occasional word. Like the rest of the Mandinkas--except forthose as learned as the arafang--Kunta knew next to nothingof the languages of other tribes, even of those who livednearby. But he had spent enough time around the travelers'tree to know which tribes were which. The Fulas had ovalfaces, longer hair, thinner lips, and sharper features, andvertical scars on their temples. The Wolof were extremelyblack and very reserved, the Serahuli lighter-skinned andsmall in stature. And the Jolas--there was no mistaking them--scarred their entire bodies, and their faces always seemed towear a ferocious expression. Kunta recognized people fromall of these tribes here in the new village, but there were evenmore he didn't recognize. Some were haggling loudly withtraders as they hawked their wares. Older women clamoredover tanned hides, and younger women bargained forhairpieces made from sisal and baobab. The cry "Kola! Finepurple kola!" drew a cluster of those whose few remainingteeth were already orange-stained from chewing the nuts.Amid friendly elbowing and pushing, Omoro was introduced toan endless stream of villagers and important persons fromexciting places. Kunta marveled at his uncles' fluent talking inthe strange tongues they spoke. Letting himself drift into theshifting throng, knowing that he could find his father and uncleswhenever he wanted to, Kunta soon found himself among themusicians who were playing for all who felt like dancing. Nexthe sampled the roast antelope and beef and the groundnutstew that the village women kept bountifully supplied on tablesin the baobabs' shade for anyone who wanted it. It was allright as food went, Kunta thought, but not as tasty as the

succulent harvest-festival dishes prepared by the mothers ofJuffure. Seeing some women over by the well talking excitedlyabout something, Kunta sidled over, his ears as wide as hiseyes, and heard that a very great mar about was reported tobe only about halfa day's travel away on the trail, journeyingwith his party to honor the new village, since it had beenfounded by sons of the late holy man Kairaba Kunta Kinte.Kunta was thrilled anew to hear his own grandfather spoken ofso reverently. Unrecognized by any of the women, he heardthem chatter next about his uncles. It was time they traveledless and settled down to have wives and sons, one womansaid. "The only trouble they will have," said another, "is somany maidens eager to be their wives." It was almost darkwhen Kunta, feeling very awkward, finally approached someboys of around his own age. But they didn't seem to mind thathe had hung around the grownups until now. Mostly, theyseemed anxious to tell Kunta how their new village had cometo be. "All of our families became your uncles' friendssomewhere during their travels,"said one boy. All of them hadbeen dissatisfied with their lives where they were, for onereason or another. "My grandfather didn't have enough spacefor all his family and his children's families to be close to him,"a boy said. "Our belong wouldn't grow good rice," saidanother. His uncles, Kunta heard, began telling friends theyknew an ideal place where they were thinking of building avillage. And the families of Janneh and Saloum's friends weresoon on the trail with their goats, chickens, pets, prayer rugs,and other possessions. Soon it was dark and Kunta watchedas the fires of the new village were lit with the sticks and

branches that his new friends had collected earlier in the day.Because it was a time of celebration, they told him, all thevillagers and visitors would sit together around several fires,instead of the usual custom, which dictated that the men andthe women and children would sit at separate fires. Thealimamo would bless the gathering, they said, and thenJanneh and Saloum would walk inside the circle to tell storiesabout their travels and adventures. In the circle with themwould be the oldest visitor to the village, a senior elder fromthe distant upper-river of Fulladu. It was whispered that he hadover a hundred rains, and would share his wisdom with all whohad ears to hear. Kunta ran to join his father at the fireside justin time to hear the alimamo's prayer. After it, no one saidanything for a few minutes. Crickets rasped loudly, and thesmoky fires cast dancing shadows upon the wide circle offaces. Finally, the leathery old elder spoke: "Hundreds of rainsbefore even my earliest memories, talk reached across thebig waters of an African mountain of gold. This is what firstbrought toubob to Africa!" There was no gold mountain, hesaid, but gold beyond description had been found in streamsand mined from deep shafts first in northern Guinea, then laterin the forests of Ghana. "Toubob was never told where goldcame from," said the old man, "for what one toubob knows,soon they all know." Then Janneh spoke. Nearly as preciousas gold in many places, he said, was salt. He and Saloum hadpersonally seen salt and gold exchanged in equal weights.Salt was found in thick slabs under certain distant sands, andcertain waters elsewhere would dry into a salty mush, whichwas shaped into blocks after sitting in the sun. "There was

once a city of salt," said the old man. "The city of Taghaza,whose people built their houses and mosques of blocks ofsalt." "Tell of the strange humpbacked animals you havespoken of before now," demanded an ancient-looking oldwoman, daring to interrupt. She reminded Kunta ofGrandmother Nyo Boto. A hyena howled somewhere in thenight as people leaned forward in the flickering light. It wasSaloum's turn to speak. "Those animals that are calledcamels live in a place of endless sand. They find their wayacross it from the sun, the stars, and the wind. Janneh and Ihave ridden these animals for as long as three moons withfew stops for water." "But many stops to fight off the bandits!"said Janneh. "Once we were part of a caravan of twelvethousand camels," Saloum continued. "Actually, it was manysmaller caravans traveling together to protect ourselvesagainst bandits." Kunta saw that as Saloum spoke, Jannehwas unrolling a large piece of tanned hide. The elder made animpatient gesture to two young men who sprang to throw ontothe fire some dry branches. In the flaring light, Kunta and theothers could follow Janneh's finger as it moved across astrange-looking drawing. "This is Africa," he said. The fingertraced what he told them was "the big water" to the west, andthen "the great sand desert," a place larger by many timesthan all of The Gambia--which he pointed out in the lower leftof the drawing. "To the north coast of Africa, the toubob shipsbring porcelain, spices, cloth, horses, and countless thingsmade by men," said Saloum. "Then, camels and donkeysbear these goods inland to places like Sijilmasa, Ghadames,and Manrakech." The moving finger of Janneh showed where

those cities were. "And as we sit here tonight," said Saloum,"there are many men with heavy head loads crossing deepforests taking our own African goods--ivory, skins, olives,dates, kola nuts, cotton, copper, precious stones--back to thetoubob's ships." Kunta's mind reeled at what he heard, and hevowed silently that someday he too would venture to suchexciting places. "The mar about From far out on the trail, thelookout drummer beat out the news. Quickly a formal greetingparty was lined up--Janneh and Saloum as the village'sfounders; then the Council of Elders, the alimamo, thearafang; then the honored representatives of other villages,including Omoro; and Kunta was placed with those of hisheight among the village's young ones. Musicians led them allout toward the travelers' tree, timing their approach to meetthe holy man as he arrived. Kunta stared hard at the white-bearded, very black old man at the head of his long and tiredparty. Men, women, and children were heavily loaded withlarge head bundles except for a few men herding cattle and,Kunta judged, more than a hundred goats. With quickgestures, the holy man blessed the welcoming party and badethem rise from their knees. Then Janneh and Saloum werespecially blessed, and Omoro was introduced by Janneh, andSaloum beckoned to Kunta, who went dashing up alongsidethem. "This is my first son," said Omoro, "who bears his holygrandfather's name." Kunta heard the mar about speak wordsin Arabic over him--which he couldn't understand, except forhis grandfather's name--and he felt the holy man's fingerstouching his head as lightly as a butterfly's wing, and then hewent dashing back among those of his own age as the mar

about went to meet the others in the welcoming party,conversing with them as if he were an ordinary man. Theyoung ones in Kunta's group began to trail away and stare atthe long line of wives, children, students, and slaves whobrought up the rear of the procession. The mar about wivesand children quickly retired into guest huts. The students,taking seats on the ground and opening their head bundleswithdrew books and manu- scripts--the property of theirteacher, the holy man--and began reading aloud to those whogathered around each of them to listen. The slaves, Kuntanoticed, didn't enter the village with the others. Remainingoutside the fence, the slaves squatted down near where theyhad tethered the cattle and penned the goats. They were thefirst slaves Kunta had ever seen who kept away from otherpeople. The holy man could scarcely move for all the peopleon their knees around him. Villagers and distinguished visitorsalike pressed their foreheads to the dirt and wailed for him tohear their plaints, some of the nearest presuming to touch hisgarment. Some begged him to visit their villages and conductlong-neglected religious services. Some asked for legaldecisions, since law and religion were companions underIslam. Fathers asked to be given meaningful names for newbabies. People from villages without an arafang asked if theirchildren might be taught by one of the holy man's students.These students were now busily selling small squares of curedgoat hide which many hands then thrust toward the holy manfor him to make his mark on. A holy-marked piece of goatskin,sewn into a treasured sap hie charm such as Kunta worearound his upper arm, would insure the wearer's constant

nearness to Allah. For the two cowrie shells he had broughtwith him from Juffure, Kunta purchased a square of goat hideand joined the jostling crowd that pressed in upon the marabout It ran through Kunta's mind that his grandfather musthave been like this holy man, who had the power, throughAllah, to bring the rain to save a starving village, as KairabaKunta Kinte had once saved Juffure. So his belovedgrandmas Yaisa and Nyo Boto had told him since he was oldenough to understand. But only now, for the first time, did hetruly understand the greatness of his grandfather--and ofIslam. Only one person, thought Kunta, was going to be toldwhy he had decided to spend his precious two cowries andnow stood holding his own small square of cured goatskinwaiting his turn for a holy mark. He was going to take theblessed goatskin back home and turn it over to Nyo Boto, andask her to keep it for him until the time came to sew it into aprecious sap hie charm for the arm of his own first son.

CHAPTER 21

Kunta's kafo, galled with envy of his trip, and expecting that hewould return to Juffure all puffed up with himself, had decided--without any of them actually saying so--to show no interestwhatever in him or his travels when he returned. And so theydid, thinking nothing of how heartsick it made Kunta feel toarrive home and find his lifelong mates not only acting as if hehadn't been away, but actually ending conversations if hecame near, his dearest friend Sitafa acting even colder thanthe others. Kunta was so upset that he hardly even thought

about his new infant brother, Suwadu, who had been bornwhile he was away With Omoro. One noon, as the goatsgrazed, Kunta finally decided to overlook his mates'unkindness and try to patch things up. Walking over to theother boys, who were sitting apart from him eating theirlunches, he sat down among them and simply began talking. "Iwish you could have been with me," he said quietly, andwithout waiting for their reaction, began to tell them about thetrip. He told how hard the days of walking had been, how hismuscles had ached, about his fright in passing the lions. Andhe described the different villages he had passed through andthe people who lived there. While he spoke, one of the boysjumped up to regroup his goats, and when he returned--without seeming to notice--sat down closer to Kunta. SoonKunta's words were being accompanied by grunts andexclamations from the others, and before they knew it, just atthat point in his story when he reached his uncles' new village,the time had come to drive the goats homeward. The nextmorning in the schoolyard, all of the boys had to strain not tolet the arafang suspect their impatience to leave. Finally outagain with their goats, they huddled around Kunta, and hebegan to tell them about the different tribes and languages allintermingled in his uncles' village. He was in the middle of oneof the tales of faraway places that Janneh and Saloum hadtold around the camp- fire--the boys hanging raptly on everyword--when the stillness of the fields was broken by theferocious barking of a wuolo dog and the shrill, terrifiedbleating of a goat. Springing upright, they saw over the edgeof the tall grass a great, tawny panther dropping a goat from

his jaws and lunging at two of their wuolo dogs. The boys werestill standing there, too shocked and scared to move, whenone of the dogs was flung aside by the panther's sweepingpaw--as the other dog leaped wildly back and forth, thepanther crouched to spring, their horrible snarlings drowningout the frantic barking of the other dogs and the cries of theother goats, which were bounding off in all directions. Then theboys fanned out, shouting and running, most trying to head offthe goats. But Kunta bolted blindly toward his father's fallengoat. "Stop, Kunta! No!" screamed Sitafa as he tried to stophim from running between the dogs and the panther. Hecouldn't catch him; but when the panther saw the two yellingboys rushing at him, he backed off a few feet, then turned andraced back toward the forest with the enraged dogs at hisheels. The panther stink and the mangled nanny goat madeKunta sick--blood was running darkly down her twisted neck;her tongue lolled out; her eyes were rolled back up in her headand--most horribly--her belly was ripped wide open and Kuntacould see her unborn kid inside, still slowly pulsing. Nearbywas the first wuolo dog, whining in pain from its gashed sideand trying to crawl toward Kunta. Vomiting where he stood,Kunta turned, ashen, and looked at Sitafa's anguished face.Dimly, through his tears, Kunta sensed some of the other boysaround him, staring at the hurt dog and the dead goat. Thenslowly they all drew back--all but Sitafa, who put his armsaround Kunta. None of them spoke, but the question hung inthe air: How is he going to tell his father? Somehow Kuntafound his voice. "Can you care for my goats?" he askedSitafa. "I must take this hide to my father." Sitafa went over

and talked with the other boys, and two of them quickly pickedup and carried off the whimpering dog. Kunta then motionedSitafa to go away with the others. Kneeling by the dead nannygoat with his knife, Kunta cut and pulled, and cut again, as hehad seen his father do it, until finally he rose with the wet hidein his hands. Pulling weeds, he covered over the nanny'scarcass and the unborn kid, and started back toward thevillage. Once before he had forgotten his goats while herding,and he had vowed never to let it happen again. But it hadhappened again, and this time a nanny goat had been killed.Desperately, he hoped it was a nightmare and that he'dawaken now, but the wet hide was in his hands. He wisheddeath upon himself, but he knew his disgrace would be takenamong the ancestors. Allah must be punishing him forboasting, Kunta thought with shame. He stopped to kneeltoward the way the sun rose and prayed for forgiveness.Rising, he saw that his kafo had all the goats herded backtogether and were getting ready to leave the grazing area,lifting their head loads of firewood. One boy was carrying theinjured dog, and two of the other dogs were limping badly.Sitafa, seeing Kunta looking toward them, put his head loaddown and started toward Kunta, but quickly Kunta waved himaway again to go on with the rest. Each footstep along theworn goat trail seemed to take Kunta closer to the end--theend of everything. Guilt and terror and numbness washed overhim in waves. He would be sent away. He would miss Binta,Lamin, and old Nyo Boto. He would even miss the arafang'sclass. He thought of his late Grandma Yaisa, of his holy mangrandfather whose name he bore, now disgraced; of his

famous traveling uncles, who had built a village. Heremembered that he had no head load of firewood. Hethought of the nanny goat, whom he remembered well, alwaysskittish and given to trotting off from the rest. And he thought ofthe kid not yet born. And while he thought of all these things,he could think of nothing but what he most feared to think of:his father. His mind lurched, and he stopped, rooted, notbreathing, staring ahead of him down the path. It was Omoro,running toward him. No boy would have dared tell him; howhad he known? "Are you all right?" his father asked. Kunta'stongue seemed cleaved to the roof of his mouth. "Yes, Pa," hesaid finally. But by then Omoro's hand was exploring Kunta'sbelly, discovering that the blood soaking his dundiko wasn'tKunta's. Straightening, Omoro took the hide and laid it on thegrass. "Sit down!" he ordered, and Kunta did, trembling asOmoro sat across from him. "There is something you need toknow," said Omoro. "All men make mistakes. I lost a goat to alion when I was of your rains." Pulling at his tunic, Omorobared his left hip. The pale, deeply scarred place thereshocked Kunta. "I learned, and you must learn. Never runtoward any dangerous animal! " His eyes searched Kunta'sface. "Do you hear me?" "Yes, Fa." Omoro got up, took thegoafs hide, and flung it far off into the brush. "Then that is allthat needs to be said." Kunta's head reeled as he walkedback to the village behind Omoro. Greater even than his guilt,and his relief, was the love he felt for his father at this momentCHAPTER 22 Kunta had reached his tenth rain, and thesecond-kafo boys his age were about to complete theschooling they had received twice daily since they were five

rains old. When the day of graduation came, the parents ofKunta and his mates seated themselves in the arafang'sschoolyard beaming with pride in the very front rows, evenahead of the village elders. While Kunta and the otherssquatted before the ara- fang, the village alimamo prayed.Then the arafang stood and began looking around at hispupils as they waved their hands to be asked a question.Kunta was the first boy he chose. "What was the profession ofyour forefathers, Kunta Kinte?" he asked. "Hundreds of rainsago in the land of Man," Kunta confidently replied, "the Kintemen were blacksmiths, and their women were makers of potsand weavers of cloth." With each pupil's correct answer, allthose assembled made loud sounds of pleasure. Then thearafang asked a mathematical question: "If a baboon hasseven wives, each wife has seven children, and each childeats seven ground nuts for seven days, how many nuts did thebaboon steal from some man's farm?" After much franticfiguring with grass-quill pens on their cottonwood slates, thefirst to yelp out the right answer was Sitafa Silla, and thecrowd's shouting of praise drowned out the groans of theother boys. Next the boys wrote their names in Arabic, as theyhad been taught. And one by one, the arafang held up theslates for all the parents and other spectators to see forthemselves what education had achieved. Like the other boys,Kunta had found the marks that talk even harder to read thanthey were to write. Many mornings and evenings, with thearafang rapping their knuckles, they had all wished that writingwas as easy to understand as the talking drum, which eventhose of Lamin's age could read as if someone standing

beyond sight were calling out the words. One by one now, thearafang asked each graduate to stand. Finally came Kunta'sturn. "Kunta Kintel" With all eyes upon him, Kunta felt the greatpride of his family in the front row, even of his ancestors in theburying ground beyond the village--most especially of hisbeloved Grandma Yaisa. Standing up, he read aloud a versefrom the Koran's last page; finishing, he pressed it to hisforehead and said, "Amen!" When the readings were done,the teacher shook each boy's hand and announced loudly thatas their education was complete, these boys were now of thethird kafo, and everyone broke out into a loud cheering. Bintaand the other mothers quickly removed the covers from thebowls and calabashes they had brought, heaped withdelicious foods, and the graduation ceremony ended in afeast that soon emptied both. Omoro was waiting the nextmorning when Kunta came to take the family's goats out forthe day's grazing. Pointing to a fine young male and female,Omoro said, "These two are your school-finishing present."Almost before Kunta could stammer out his thanks, Omorowalked away without another word--as if he gave away a pairof goats every day--and Kunta tried very hard not to seemexcited. But the moment his father was out of sight, Kuntawhooped so loud that his new charges jumped and startedrunning--with all the others in hot pursuit. By the time he caughtup with them and herded them out to the fields, the rest of hismates were already there--showing off their own new goats.Treating them like sacred animals, the boys steered theircharges to only the most tender grasses, already picturing thestrong young kids they would soon produce, and the kids

would have soon after, until each boy had a herd as large andvaluable as his father's. Before the next new moon appeared,Omoro and Binta were among the parents who gave away athird goat--this one to the arafang as an expression ofgratitude for their son's education. If they had been moreprosperous, they would have been glad to give even a cow,but they knew he understood that this was beyond theirmeans, as it was beyond the means of everyone in Juffure,which was a humble village. Indeed, some parents--newslaves with nothing saved--had little to offer but their ownbacks, and their grateful gift of a moon's farm work for thearafang was graciously accepted. The passing moons soonflowed into seasons until yet another rain had passed andKunta's kafo had taught Lamin's kafo how to be goatherds. Atime long awaited now drew steadily nearer. Not a daypassed that Kunta and his mates didn't feel both anxiety andjoy at the approach of the next harvest festival, which wouldend with the taking away of the third kafo--those boys betweenten and fifteen rains in age--to a place far away from Juffure,to which they would return, after four moons, as men. Kuntaand the others tried to act as if none of them were really givingthe matter any particular thought or concern. But they thoughtof little else, and they watched and listened for the slightestsign or word from a grownup that had anything at all to do withmanhood training. And early in the dry season, after several oftheir fathers quietly left Juffure for two or three days and just asquietly returned, the boys whispered tensely amongthemselves, especially after Kalilu Conteh overheard his unclesay that much-needed repairs had been made on the jujuo,

the manhood-training village that had gone unused andexposed to weather and animals for almost five rains sincethe last training had been completed there. Even more excitedwhispering followed talk among their fathers about which eldermight be selected by the Council of Elders to be the kin tangothe man in charge of manhood training. Kunta and all of hismates had many times heard their fathers, uncles, and olderbrothers speaking reverently of the kin- tangos who hadsupervised their own manhood training many rains before. Itwas just before the harvest season when all of the third-kafoboys reported to one another in a fever of excitement howtheir mothers had silently measured each of them with asewing tape around his head and down to his shoulders.Kunta did his best to hide the vivid memory of that morningfive rains before when, as brand-new little goatherds, he andhis mates had been scared nearly out of their wits as theywatched screaming boys under white hoods being kicked andjeered from the village by a band of temfyingly masked,shrieking, spear-carrying kanku- rang dancers. The tobalosoon boomed out the beginning of the new harvest, and Kuntajoined the rest of the villagers in the fields. He welcomed thelong days of hard work, for they kept him too busy and tootired to give much thought to what lay ahead. But when theharvesting was done and the festival began, he found himselfunable to enjoy the music and the dancing and the feasting asthe others did--as he himself had done for as long as he couldremember. The louder the merriment, in fact, the unhappier hebecame until finally he spent most of the last two days of thefestival sitting by himself on the banks of the belong skipping

stones across the water. On the night before the last day of thefestival, Kunta was in Binta's hut silently finishing his eveningmeal of groundnut stew with rice when Omoro walked inbehind him. From the corner of his eye, Kunta glimpsed hisfather raising something white, and before he had a chance toturn around, Omoro had pulled a long hood down firmly overhis head. The terror that shot through Kunta all but numbedhim. He-felt his father's hand gripping his upper arm andurging him to stand up, then to move backward until he waspushed down onto a low stool. Kunta was grateful to sit, for hislegs felt like water and his head felt light. He listened tohimself breathing in short gasps, knowing that if he tried tomove, he would fall off the stool. So he sat very still, trying toaccustom himself to the darkness. Terrified as he was, itseemed almost a double darkness. As his upper lip felt themoist warmth of his breath inside the hood, it flashed throughKunta's mind that surely once such a hood had been thrust inthe same way over his father's head. Could Omoro have beenso frightened? Kunta couldn't even imagine that, and he feltashamed to be such a disgrace to the Kinte clan. It was veryquiet in the hut. Wrestling the fear that knotted the pit of hisstomach, Kunta closed his eyes and focused his very poreson trying to hear something, anything at all. He thought heheard Binta moving about, but he couldn't be sure. Hewondered where Lamin was, and Suwadu, who surely wouldbe making noise. He knew only one thing for sure: NeitherBinta nor anyone else was going to speak to him, let alone liftthat hood off his head. And then Kunta thought how awful itwould be if his hood did get lifted, for everyone would see how

scared he really was, and perhaps therefore a boy unworthy ofjoining his kafo mates in manhood training. Even boys thesize of Lamin knew--since Kunta had told him--what wouldhappen to anyone who showed himself too weak or cowardlyto endure the training that turned boys into hunters, intowarriors, into men--all within a period of twelve moons.Suppose he should fail? He began gulping down his fear,remembering how he had been told that any boy who failedthe manhood training would be treated as a child for the restof his life, even though he might look like a grown man. Hewould be avoided, and his village would never permit him tomarry, lest he father others like himself. These sad cases,Kunta had heard, usually slipped away from their villagessooner or later, never to return, and even their own fathers,mothers, brothers, and sisters would never mention themagain. Kunta saw himself slinking away from Juffure like somemangy hyena, scorned by everyone; it was too horrible to thinkof. After a time, Kunta realized that he was faintly hearing thedrumbeats and the shouting of dancers in the distance. Moretime passed. What hour was it, he wondered. He guessed itmust be near the sutoba hour, halfway between dusk anddawn, but after a few moments he heard the alimamo's high-pitched wailing for the village's safo prayer, two hours beforemidnight. The music ceased and Kunta knew that the villagershad stopped their celebrating and the men were hastening tothe mosque. Kunta sat until he knew the prayers must havebeen over, but the music didn't resume. He listened hard, butcould hear only silence. Finally he nodded off, awakening witha start only a few moments later. It was still quiet--and darker

under the hood than a moonless night. Finally, faintly, he wascertain that he could hear the early yippings of hyenas. Heknew that hyenas always yipped for a while before settlingdown to steady howling, which they would continue until earlydaybreak, sounding eerily far away. During the harvest festivalweek, at the first streaks of daybreak, Kunta knew the tobalowould boom. He sat waiting for that to happen--for anything tohappen. He felt his anger building, expecting the tobalo tosound at any moment--but nothing happened. He grated histeeth and waited some, more. And then, at last, after jerkingawake a few times, he dozed off into a fitful sleep. He all butleaped from his skin when the tobalo finally did boom. Underthe hood, his cheeks were hot with embarrassment that hehad fallen asleep. Having become accustomed to the hood'sdarkness, Kunta could all but see the morning's activities fromthe sounds his ears picked up--the crowing of the cocks, thebarking of the wuolo dogs, the wailing of the alimamo, thebumping of the women's pestles as they beat the breakfastcouscous. This morning's prayer to Allah, he knew, would befor the success of the manhood training that was about tobegin. He heard movement in the hut, and he sensed that itwas Binta. It was strange how he couldn't see her, but he knewit was his mother. Kunta wondered about Sitafa and his othermates. It surprised him to realize that throughout the night, hehadn't once thought about them until now. He told himself thatthey must surely have had as long a night as he had. When themusic of koras and balafons began playing outside the hut,Kunta heard the sound of people walking and talking, louderand louder. Then drums joined the din, their rhythm sharp and

cutting. A moment later, his heart seemed to stop as hesensed the sudden movement of someone rushing into thehut. Before he could even brace himself, his wrists weregrabbed, and roughly he was snatched up from the stool andjerked out through the hut door into the all but deafening noiseof staccato drums and screeching people. Hands knockedhim and feet kicked him. Kunta thought desperately of boltingaway somehow, but just as he was about to try, a firm yetgentle hand grasped one of his. Breathing hoarsely under hishood, Kunta realized that he was no longer being hit andkicked and that the screaming of the crowd was suddenly nolonger nearby. The people, he guessed, had moved along tosome other boy's hut, and the guiding hand that held his mustbelong to the slave Omoro would have hired, as every fatherdid, to lead his hooded son to the jujuo. The crowd's shoutingrose to a frenzied pitch every time another boy was draggedfrom a hut, and Kunta was glad he couldn't see the kankurangdancers, who were making bloodcurdling whoops as theysprang high into the air brandishing their spears. Big drumsand small drums--every drum in the village, it seemed--werepounding as the slave guided Kunta faster and faster betweenrows of people shouting on either side of him, crying outthings like "Four moons!" and "They will become meni" Kuntawanted to burst into tears. He wished wildly that he couldreach out and touch Omoro, Binta, Lamin--even the snivelingSuwadu--for it felt too much to bear that four long moons weregoing to pass before he would see again those he loved evenmore than he had ever realized until now. Kunta's ears toldhim that he and his guide had joined a moving line of

marchers, all stepping to the swift rhythm of the drums. As theypassed through the village gates--he could tell because thenoise of the crowd began to fade--he felt hot tears well up andrun down his cheeks. He closed his eyes tight, as if to hide thetears even from himself. As he had felt Binta's presence in thehut, now he felt, almost as if it were a smell, the fear of his kafomates ahead and behind him in the line, and he knew thattheirs was as great as his. Somehow that made him feel lessashamed. As he trudged on in the white blindness of his hood,he knew that he was leaving behind more than his father andhis mother and his brothers and the village of his birth, andthis filled him with sadness as much as terror. But he knew itmust be done, as it had been done by his father before himand would some day be done by his son. He would return, butonly as a man.

CHAPTER 23

They must be approaching--within a stone's throw, Kuntasensed--a recently cut bamboo grove. Through his hood, hecould smell the rich fragrance of bamboo freshly chopped.They marched closer; the smell became stronger andstronger; they were at the barrier, then through it; but they werestill outdoors. Of course--it was a bamboo fence. Suddenly thedrums stopped and the marchers halted. For several minutes,Kunta and the others stood still and silent. He listened for theslightest sound that might tell him when they had stopped orwhere they were, but all he could hear was the screeching ofparrots and the scolding of monkeys overhead. Then,

suddenly, Kunta's hood was lifted. He stood blinking in thebright sun of midafternoon, trying to adjust his eyes to the light.He was afraid even to turn his head enough to see his kafomates, for directly before them stood stem, wrinkled seniorelder Silla Ba Dibba. Like all the other boys, Kunta knew himand his family well. But Silla Ba Dibba acted as if he hadnever seen any of them before--indeed, as if he would rathernot see them now; his eyes scanned their faces as he wouldhave looked at crawling maggots. Kunta knew that this surelywas their kin- tango. Standing on either side of him were twoyounger men, All Sise and Soru Tura, whom Kunta also knewwell; Soru was a special friend of Omoro's. Kunta was gratefulthat neither of them wiw Omoro, to see his son so scared. Asthey had been taught, the entire kafo--all twenty- three boys--crossed their palms over their hearts and greeted their eldersin the traditional way: "Peace!" "Peace only!" replied the oldkin tango and his assistants. Widening his gaze for amoment--careful not to move his head--Kunta saw that theystood in a compound dotted with several small, mud-walled,thatch-roofed huts and surrounded by the tall new bamboofence. He could see where the huts had been patched,undoubtedly by the fathers who had disappeared from Juffurefor a few days. All this he saw without moving a muscle. Butthe next moment he nearly jumped out of his skin. "Childrenleft Juffure village," said the kin tango suddenly in a loud voice."If men are to return, your fears must be erased, for a fearfulperson is a weak person, and a weak person is a danger tohis family, to his village, and to his tribe." He glared at them asif he had never seen such a sorry lot, and then turned away. As

he did so, his two assistants sprang forward and began to layabout among the boys with limber sticks, pummeling theirshoulders and backsides smartly as they herded them like somany goats, a few boys apiece, into the small mud huts.Huddled in their bare hut, Kunta and his four mates were tooterrified to feel the lingering sting of the blows they hadreceived, and too ashamed to raise their heads even enoughto Jook at one another. After a few minutes, when it seemedthat they would be spared from further abuse for a little while,Kunta began to sneak looks at his companions. He wishedthat he and Sitafa were in the same hut. He knew theseothers, of course, but none as well as his yayo brother, and hisheart sank. But perhaps that's no accident, he reasoned. Theyprobably don't want us to have even that small comfort. Maybethey're not even going to feed us, he began to think, when hisstomach started to growl with hunger. Just after sunset, the kintango assistants burst into the hut. "Move!" A stick caught himsharply across the shoulders, and the scrambling boys werehissed at as they rushed outside into the dusk, bumping intoboys from other huts, and under the flying sticks were herdedwith gruff orders into a ragged line, each boy grasping thehand of the boy ahead. When they were all in place, the kintango fixed them with a dark scowl and announced that theywere about to undertake a night journey deep into thesurrounding forest. At the order to march, the long line of boysset out along the path in clumsy disarray, and the sticks fellsteadily among them. "You walk like buffalo!" Kunta heardclose to his ear. A boy cried out as he was hit, and bothassistants shouted loudly in the darkness, "Who was that?,"

and their sticks rained down even harder. After that no boyuttered a sound. Kunta's legs soon began to hurt--but not assoon or as badly as they would have done if he hadn't learnedthe manner of loose striding taught him by his father on theirtrip to the village of Janneh and Saloum. It pleased him tothink that the other boys' legs were surely hurting worse thanhis, for they wouldn't yet know how to walk. But nothing he hadlearned did anything to help Kunta's hunger and thirst. Hisstomach felt tied in knots, and he was starting to feel light-headed when at last a stop was called near a small stream.The reflection of the bright moon in its surface was soon set torippling as the boys fell to their knees and began to scoop upand gulp down handfuls of water. A moment later the kin tangoassistants commanded them away from the stream withorders not to drink too much at once, then opened their headpacks and passed out some chunks of dried meat. The boystore away at the morsels like hyenas; Kunta chewed andswallowed so fast that he barely tasted the four bites hemanaged to wrest away for himself. Every boy's feet had big,raw blisters on them, Kunta's as bad as any of the rest; but itfelt so good to have food and water in his stomach that hehardly noticed. As they sat by the stream, he and his kafomates began to look around in the moonlight at one another,this time too tired rather than too afraid to speak. Kunta andSitafa exchanged long glances, but neither could tell in thedim light if his friend looked as miserable as he felt himself.Kunta hardly had a chance to cool his burning feet in thestream before the kin tango assistants ordered them backinto formation for the long walk back to the jujuo. His legs and

head were numb when they finally came within sight of thebamboo gates shortly before dawn. Feeling ready to die, hetrudged to his hut, bumped into another boy already inside,lost his footing, stumbled to the dirt floor--and fell deep asleepright where he lay. On every night for the next six nights cameanother march, each one longer than the last. The pain of hisblistered feet was terrible, but Kunta found by the fourth nightthat he somehow didn't mind the pain as much, and he beganto feel a welcome new emotion: pride. By the sixth march, heand the other boys discovered that though the night was verydark, they no longer needed to hold the next boy's hand inorder to maintain a straight marching line. On the seventhnight came the kin tango first personal lesson for the boys:showing them how men deep in the forest used the stars toguide them, so that they would never be lost. Within the firsthalf moon, every boy of the kafo had- learned how to lead themarching line by the stars, back toward the jujuo. One nightwhen Kunta was the leader, he almost stepped on a bush ratbefore it noticed him and scurried for cover. Kunta was almostas proud as he was startled, for this meant that the marchershad been walking too silently to be heard even by an animal.But animals, the kin tango told them, were the' best teachersof the art of hunting, which was one of the most importantthings for any Mandinka to learn. When the kin tango wassatisfied that they had mastered the techniques of marching,he took the kafo, for the next half moon, deep into the bush farfrom the jujuo, where they built lean-to shelters to sleep inbetween countless lessons in the secrets of becoming asimbon. Kunta's eyes never seemed to have been closed

before one of the kin tango assistants was shouting themawake for some training session. The kin tango assistantspointed out where lions had recently crouched in wait, thensprung out to kill passing antelope; then where the lions hadgone after_ their meal and laid down to sleep for the rest ofthe night. The tracks of the antelope herd were followedbackward until they almost painted a picture for the boys ofwhat those antelope had done through the day before theymet the lions. The kafo inspected the wide cracks in rockswhere wolves and hyenas hid. And they began to learn manytricks of hunting that they had never dreamed about. They hadnever realized, for example, that the first secret of the mastersimbon was never moving abruptly. The old kin tango himselftold the boys a story about a foolish hunter who finally starvedto death in an area thick with game, because he was soclumsy and made so much noise, darting here and there, thatall about him animals of every sort swiftly and silently slippedaway without his even realizing that any had been near. Theboys felt like that clumsy hunter during their lessons inimitating the sounds of animals and birds. The air was rentwith their grunts and whistles, yet no birds or animals camenear. Then they would be told to lie very quietly in hidingplaces while the kin tango and his assistants made whatseemed to them the same sounds, and soon animals andbirds would come into sight, cocking their heads and lookingfor the others who had called to them. When the boys werepracticing bird calls one afternoon, suddenly a large-bodied,heavy-beaked bird landed with a great squawking in a nearbybush. "Look!" one boy shouted with a loud laugh--and every

other boy's heart leaped into his throat, knowing that onceagain that boy's big mouth was going to get them all punishedtogether. No few times before had he shown his habit ofacting before thinking-but now the kin tango surprised them.He walked over to the boy and said to him very sternly, "Bringthat bird to me--alive!" Kunta and his mates held their breathsas, they watched the boy hunch down and creep toward thebush where the heavy bird sat stupidly, turning its head thisway and that. But when the boy sprang, the bird managed toescape his clutching hands, frantically beating its stubbywings just enough to raise its big body over the brush tops--and the boy went leaping after it in hot pursuit, soondisappearing from sight. Kunta and the others werethunderstruck. There was clearly no limit to what the kin tangomight order them to do. For the next three days and twonights, as the boys went about their training sessions, theycast long glances at each other and then the nearby bush, allof them wondering and worrying about what had befallen theirmissing mate. As much as he had annoyed them before bygetting them all beaten for things he'd done, he seemed nevermore one of them now that he was gone. The boys were justgetting up on the morning of the fourth day when the jujuolookout' signaled that someone was approaching the village.A moment later came the drum message: It was he. Theyrushed out to meet him, whooping as if their own brother hadreturned from a trek to Marrakech. Thin and dirty and coveredwith cuts and bruises, he swayed slightly as they ran up andslapped him on the back. But he managed a weak smile--andwell he should: Under his arm, its wings and feet and beak

bound with a length of vine, he held the bird. It looked evenworse than he did, but it was still alive. The kin tango cameout, and though speaking to that boy, he made it clear that hewas really speaking to them all: "This taught you two importantthings--to do as you are told, and to keep your mouth shut.These are among the makings of men. " Then Kunta and hismates saw that boy receive the first clearly approving lookcast upon anyone by the old kin tango who had known that theboy would sooner or later be able to catch a bird so heavy thatit could make only short, low hops through the bush. The bigbird was quickly roasted and eaten with great relish byeveryone except his captor, who was so tired that he couldn'tstay awake long enough for it to cook. He was permitted tosleep through the day and also through the night, which Kuntaand the others had to spend out in the bush on a huntinglesson. The next day, during the first rest period, the boy toldhis hushed mates what a torturous chase he had led, untilfinally, after two days and a night, he had laid a trap that thebird walked into. After trussing it up--including the snappingbeak--he had somehow kept himself awake for another dayand night, and by following the stars as they had been taught,had found his way back to the jujuo. For a while after that, theother boys had very little to say to him. Kunta told himself thathe wasn't really jealous; it was just that the boy seemed tothink that his exploit--and the kin tango approval of it--hadmade him more important than his kafo mates. And the verynext time the kin tango assistants ordered an afternoon ofwrestling practice, Kunta seized the chance to grab that boyand throw him roughly to the ground. By the second moon of

manhood training, Kunta's kafo had become almost as skilledat survival in the forest as they would have been in their ownvillage. They could now both detect and follow the all butinvisible signs of animals, and now they were learning thesecret rituals and prayers of the forefathers that could make avery great simbon himself invisible to animals. Every bite ofmeat they ate now was either trapped by the boys or shot bytheir slings and arrows. They could skin an animal twice asfast as they could before, and cook the meat over the nearlysmokeless fires they had learned to build by striking flint closeto dry moss under light, dry sticks. Their meals of roastedgame--sometimes small bush rats--were usually topped offwith insects toasted crispy in the coals. Some of the mostvaluable lessons they learned weren't even planned. One day,during a rest period, when a boy was testing his bow and onecareless arrow happened to strike a nest of kurburungo beeshigh in a tree, a cloud of angry bees swarmed down--andonce again all the boys suffered for the mistake of one. Noteven the fastest runner among them escaped the painfulstings. "The simbon never shoots an arrow without knowingwhat it will hit," the kin tango told them later. Ordering the boysto rub one another's puffed and hurting places with shea treebutter, he said, "Tonight, you will deal with those bees in theproper manner." By nightfall, the boys had piled dry mossbeneath the tree that held the nest. After one of the kin tangoassistants set it afire, the other one threw into the flames aquantity of leaves from a certain bush. Thick, choking smokerose into the tree's upper limbs, and soon dead bees weredropping around the boys by the thousands, as harmlessly as

rain. In the morning, Kunta and his kafo were shown how tomelt down the honeycombs--skimming off the rest of the deadbees--so that they could eat their fill of honey. Kunta couldalmost feel himself tingle with that extra strength it was saidhoney would give to great hunters when they were in need ofquick nourishment deep in the forest. But no matter what theywent through, no matter how much they added to theirknowledge and abilities, the old kin tango was never satisfied.His demands and his discipline remained so strict that theboys were torn between fear and anger most of the time--when they weren't too weary to feel either. Any command toone boy that wasn't instantly and perfectly performed stillbrought a beating to the entire kafo. And when they weren'tbeing beaten, it seemed to Kunta, they' were being wakenedroughly in the middle of the night for a-long march--always asa punishment for some boy's wrongdoing. The only thing thatkept Kunta and the others from giving that boy a beating oftheir own was the certain knowledge that they would bebeaten for fighting; among the first lessons they had learned inlife---long before coming to the jujuo--having been thatMandinkas must never fight among themselves. Finally theboys began to understand that the welfare of the groupdepended on each of them--just as the welfare of their tribewould depend on each of them one day. Violations of the rulesslowly dwindled to an occasional lapse, and with the decline inheatings, the fear they felt for the kin tango was slowlyreplaced by a respect they had felt before only for theirfathers. But still hardly a day would pass without somethingnew to make Kunta and his mates feel awkward and ignorant

all over again. It amazed them to learn, for example, that a ragfolded and hung in certain ways near a man's hut would informother Mandinka men when he planned to return, or thatsandals crossed in certain ways outside a hut told manythings that only other men would understand. But the secretKunta found the most remarkable of all was sira kango, a kindof men's talk in which sounds of Mandinka words werechanged in such a way that no women or children or non-Mandinkas were permitted to learn. Kunta remembered timeswhen he had heard his father say something very rapidly toanother man that Kunta had not understood nor dared to askexplained. Now that he had learned it himself, he and hismates soon spoke nearly everything they said in the secrettalk of men. In every hut as each moon went by, the boysadded a new rock to a bowl to mark how long they had beengone from Juffure. Within days after the third rock wasdropped in the bowl, the boys were wrestling in thecompound-one afternoon when suddenly they looked towardthe gate of the jujuo, and there stood a group of twenty-five orthirty men. A loud gasp rose from the boys as they recognizedtheir fathers, uncles, and older brothers. Kunta sprang up,unable to believe his eyes, as a bolt of joy shot through him atthe first sight of Omoro for three moons. But it was as if someunseen hand held him back and stifled a cry of gladness--even before he saw in his father's face no sign that herecognized his son. Only one boy rushed forward, calling outhis father's name, and without a word that father reached forthe stick of the nearest kin tango assistant and beat his sonwith it, shouting at him harshly for betraying his emotions, for

showing that he was still a boy. He added, unnecessarily, ashe gave him the last licks, that his son should expect no favorsfrom his father. Then the kin tango himself barked a commandfor the entire kafo to lie on their bellies in a row, and all of thevisiting men walked along the row and flailed the upturnedbacksides with their walking sticks. Kunta's emotions were ina turmoil; the blows he didn't mind at all, knowing them to bemerely another of the rigors of manhood training, but it painedhim not to be able to bug his father or even hear his voice, andit shamed him to know that it wasn't manly even to wish forsuch indulgences. The beating over, the kin tango ordered theboys to race, to jump, to dance, to wrestle, to pray as they hadbeen taught, and the fathers, uncles, and older brotherswatched it all silently, and then departed with warmcompliments to the kin tango and his assistants, but not somuch as a backward look at the boys, who stood withdowncast faces. Within the hour, they got another beating forsulking about the preparation of their evening meal. It hurt allthe more because the kin tango and his assistants acted as ifthe visitors had never even been there. But early that night,while the boys were wrestling before bedtime--onlyhalfheartedly now--one of the kin tango assistants passed byKunta and said brusquely to him, under his breath, "You havea new brother, and he is named Madi." Four of us now,thought Kunta, lying awake later that night. Four brothers--foursons for his mother and father. He thought how that wouldsound in the Kinte family history when it was told by griots forhundreds of rains in the future. After Omoro, thought Kunta, hewould be the first man of the family when he returned to

Juffure. Not only was he learning to be a man, but he was alsolearning many, many things he would be able to teach Lamin,as already he had taught him so many of the things ofboyhood. At least he would teach him that which waspermissible for boys to know; and then Lamin would teachSuwadu, and Suwadu would teach this new one whom Kuntahad not even seen, whose name was Madi. And some day,Kunta thought as he drifted off to sleep, when he was as oldas Omoro, he would have sons of his own, and it would allbegin again.

CHAPTER 24

"You are ceasing to be children. You are experiencing rebirthas men," the kin tango said one morning to the assembledkafo. This was the first time the kin tango had used the word"men" except to tell them what they weren't. After moons oflearning together, working together, being beaten together, hetold them, each of them was finally beginning to discover thathe had two selves--one within him, and the other, larger self inall those whose blood and lives he shared. Not until theylearned that lesson could they undertake the next phase ofmanhood training: how to be warriors. "You know already thatMandinkas fight only if others are warlike," said the kin tango"But we are the finest warriors if driven to fight." For the nexthalf moon, Kunta and his mates learned how to make war.Famous Mandinka battle strategies were drawn in the dust bythe kin tango or his assistants, and then the boys were told tore-enact the strategies in mock battles. "Never completely

encircle your enemy," counseled the kin tango "Leave himsome escape, for he will fight even more desperately iftrapped." The boys learned also that battles should start inlate afternoon, so that any enemy, seeing defeat, could saveface by retreating in the darkness. And they were taught thatduring any wars, neither enemy should ever do harm to anytraveling mara bouts griots, or blacksmiths, for an angeredmar about could bring down the displeasure of Allah; anangered griot could use his eloquent tongue to stir the enemyarmy to greater savagery; and an angered blacksmith couldmake or repair weapons for the enemy. Under the direction ofthe kin tango assistants, Kunta and the others carved outbarbed spears and made barbed arrows of the kind used onlyin battle, and practiced with them on smaller and smallertargets. When a boy could hit a bamboo cane twenty-fivesteps away, he was cheered and praised. Tramping into thewoods, the boys found some koona shrub, whose leaves theypicked to be boiled back at the jujuo. Into the resulting thick,black juice they would dip a cotton thread, and they wereshown how that thread, wound around an arrow's barbs, wouldseep a deadly poison into whatever wound the arrow made.At the end of the war-training period, the kin tango told themmore than they had ever known before--and told them moreexcitingly than they had ever heard it--about that greatest of allMandinka wars and warriors--the time when the army of thefabled ex-slave general Sundiata, son of Sogolon, the BuffaloWoman, conquered the forces of the Boure country's KingSoumaoro, a king so cruel that he wore human-skin robes andadorned his palace walls with enemy's bleached skulls. Kunta

and his mates held their breaths, hearing how both armiessuffered thousands of wounded or dead. But the archers ofthe Mandinkas closed in on Soumaoro's forces like a gianttrap, raining down arrows from both sides and moving insteadily until Soumaoro's terrified army finally fled in rout. Fordays and nights, said the kin tango--and it was the first timethe boys ever had seen him smile--the talking drums of everyvillage followed the marching progress of the victoriousMandinka forces, laden with enemy booty and drivingthousands of captives before them. In every village, happycrowds jeered and kicked the prisoners, whose shaved headswere bowed and whose hands were tied behind their backs.Finally General Sundiata called a huge meeting of the people,and he brought before them the chiefs of all the villages hehad defeated and gave them back their spears of chief hoodrank, and then he established among those chiefs the bondsof peace, which would last among them for the next onehundred rains. Kunta and his mates went dreamily to theirbeds, never prouder to be Mandinkas. As the next moon oftraining began, drum talk reached the jujuo telling of newvisitors to be expected within the next two days. Theexcitement with which the news of any visitors would havebeen received, after so long since the fathers and brothershad come to see them, was doubled when the boys learnedthat the sender of the message was the drummer of Juffure'schampion wrestling team, which was coming to conductspecial lessons for the trainees. Late in the afternoon of thenext day, the drums announced their arrival even earlier thanexpected. But the boys' pleasure at seeing all the familiar

faces again was forgotten when, without a word, the wrestlersgrabbed them and began to flip them onto the ground harderthan they had ever been thrown in their lives. And every boywas bruised and hurting when the wrestlers divided them intosmaller groups to grapple one another, as the championssupervised. Kunta had never imagined there were so manywrestling holds, nor how effectively they could work if usedcorrectly. And the champions kept drumming into the boys'ears that it was knowledge and expertness and not strengththat made the difference between being an ordinary wrestlerand a champion. Still, as they demonstrated the holds for theirpupils, the boys couldn't help admiring their bulging musclesas much as their skill in using them. Around the fire that night,the drummer from Juffure chanted the names arid the feats ofgreat Mandinka wrestling champions of even a hundred rainsin the past, and when it was the boys' time for bed, thewrestlers left the jujuo to return to Juffure. Two days later camenews of another visitor. This time the message was brought bya runner from Juffure--a young man of the fourth kafo whomKunta and his mates knew well, though in his own newmanhood, he acted as if he never had seen these third-kafochildren. Without so much as a glance at them, he ran up tothe kin tango and announced, between deep breaths, thatKujali N'jai, a griot well known throughout The Gambia, wouldsoon spend one full day at the jujuo. In three days he arrived,accompanied by several young men of his family. He wasmuch older than any of the griots Kunta had seen before--soold, in fact, that he made the kin tango seem young. Aftergesturing for the boys to squat in a semicircle about him, the

old man began to talk of how he became what he was. He toldthem how, over years of study from young manhood, everygriot had buried deep in his mind the records of theancestors. "How else could you know of the great deeds ofthe ancient kings, holy men, hunters, and warriors who camehundreds of rains before us? Have you met them?" asked theold man. "No! The history of our people is carried to the futurein here." And he tapped his gray head. The question in themind of every boy was answered by the old griot: Only thesons of griots could become griots. Indeed, it was theirsolemn duty to become griots. Upon finishing their manhoodtraining, these boys--like those grandsons of his own who satbeside him here today--would begin studying and travelingwith selected elders, hearing over and over again thehistorical names and stories as they had been passed down.And in due time, each young man would know that specialpart of the forefathers' history in the finest and fullest detail,just as it had been told to his father and his father's father. Andthe day would come when that boy would become a man andhave sons to whom he would tell those stories, so that theevents of the distant past would forever live. When the awedboys had wolfed down their evening meal and rushed back togather again around the old griot, he thrilled them until late intothe night with stories his own father had passed down to him--about the great black empires that had ruled Africa hundredsof rains before. "Long before toubob ever put his foot inAfrica," the old griot said, there was the Empire of Benin,ruled by an all- powerful King called the Oba, whose everywish was obeyed instantly. But the actual governing of Benin

was done by trusted counselors of the Oba, whose full timewas needed just for making the necessary sacrifices toappease the forces of evil and for his proper attentions to aharem of more than a hundred wives. But even before Beninwas a yet richer kingdom called Songhai, said the griot.Song- had's capital city was Gao, filled with fine houses forblack princes and rich merchants who lavishly entertainedtraveling tradesmen who brought much gold to buy goods."Nor was that the richest kingdom," said the old man. And hetold the boys of ancestral Ghana, in which an entire town waspopulated with only the King's court. And King Kanissaai hada thousand horses, each of which had three servants and itsown urinal made of copper. Kunta could hardly believe hisears. "And each evening," said the griot, "When KingKanissaai would emerge from his palace, a thousand fireswould be lit, lighting up all between the heavens and the earth.And the servants of the great King would bring forth foodenough to serve the ten thousand people who gathered thereeach evening. " Here he paused, and exclamations of wondercould not be restrained by the boys, who knew well that nosound should be made as a griot talked, but neither he noreven the kin tango himself seemed to notice their rudeness.Putting into his mouth half of a kola nut and offering the otherhalf- to the kin tango who accepted it with pleasure, the griotdrew the skirt of his robe closer about his legs against the chillof the early night and resumed his stories. "But even Ghanawas not the richest black kingdom!" he exclaimed. "The veryrichest, the very oldest of them all was the kingdom of ancientMali!" Like the other empires, Mali had its cities, its farmers,

its artisans, its blacksmiths, tanners, dyers, and weavers, saidthe old griot. But Mali's enormous wealth came from its far-flung trade routes in salt and gold and copper. "AltogetherMali was four months of travel long and four months of travelwide," said the griot, "and the greatest of all its cities was thefabled Timbuktu!" The major center of learning in all Africa, itwas populated by thousands of scholars, made even morenumerous by a steady parade of visiting wise men seeking toincrease their knowledge--so many that some of the biggestmerchants sold nothing but parchments and books. "There isnot a mar about not a teacher in the smallest village, whoseknowledge has not come at least in part from Timbuktu," saidthe griot, When finally the kin tango stood up and thanked thegriot for the generosity with which he had shared with them thetreasures of his mind, Kunta and the others--for the first timesince they came to the jujuo--actually dared to voice theirdispleasure, for the time had come for them to go to bed. Thekin tango chose to ignore this impertinence, at least for thetime being, and sternly commanded them to their huts--but notbefore they had a chance to beg him to urge the griot to comeback and visit them again. They were still thinking and talkingof the wondrous tales the griot bad told them when--six dayslater--word came that a famous moro would soon be visitingthe camp. The moro was the highest grade of teacher in TheGambia; indeed, there were only a few of them, and so wisewere they--after many rains of study--that their job was toteach not schoolboys but other teachers, such as the arafangof Juffure. Even the kin tango showed unusual concern aboutthis visitor, ordering the entire jujuo to be thoroughly cleaned,

with the dirt raked and then brushed with leafy branches to asmoothness that would capture the honor of the freshfootprints of the moro when he arrived. Then the kin tangoassembled the boys in the compound and told them, "Theadvice and the blessings of this man who will be with us issought not only by ordinary people but also by village chiefsand even by kings." When the moro arrived the next morning,five of his students were with him, each carrying head bundlesthat Kunta knew would contain treasured Arabic books andparchment manuscripts such as those from ancient Timbuk-to. As the old man passed through the gate, Kunta and hismates joined the kin tango and his assistants on their knees,with their foreheads touching the ground. When the moro hadblessed them and their jujuo, they rose and seatedthemselves respectfully around him as he opened his booksand began to read--first from the Koran, then from suchunheard-of books as the Taureta La Musa, the Zabora Dawithand the Lingeeli la Isa, which he said were known to"Christians" as The Pentateuch of Moses, The Psalms ofDavid and The Book of Isaiah. Each time the moro wouldopen or close a book, roll or unroll a manuscript, he wouldpress it to his forehead and mutter, "Amen!" When he hadfinished reading, the old man put his books aside and spoketo them of great events and people from the Christian Koran,which was known as the Holy Bible. He spoke of Adam andEve, of Joseph and his brethren; of Moses, David, andSolomon; of the death of Abel. And he spoke to them of greatmen of more recent history, such as Djoulou Kara Naini,known to the toubob as Alexander the Great, a mighty King of

gold and silver whose sun had shown over half of the world.Before the moro finally rose to leave that night, he reviewedwhat they already knew of the five daily prayers to Allah, andhe instructed them thoroughly in how to conduct themselvesinside the sacred mosque of their village, which they wouldenter for their first time when they returned home as men.Then he and his students had to hurry in order to reach thenext place on his busy schedule, and the boys honored him--as the kin tango had instructed them--by singing one of themen's songs they had learned from the jalli kea: "Onegeneration passes on.... Another generation comes andgoes.... But Allah abides forever." In his hut after the moro hadgone that night, Kunta lay awake thinking how so many things--indeed, nearly everything they had learned--all tied together.The past seemed with the present, the present with the future;the dead with the living and those yet to be born; he himselfwith his family, his mates, his village, his tribe, his Africa; theworld of man with the world of animals and growing things--they all lived with Allah. Kunta felt very small, yet very large.Perhaps, he thought, this is what it means to become a man.

CHAPTER 25

The time had come for that which made Kunta and every otherboy shudder to think of: the kasas boyo operation, whichwould purify a boy and prepare him to become a father ofmany sons. They knew it was coming, but when it came it waswithout warning. One day as the sun reached the noontimeposition, one of the kin tango assistants gave what seemed to

be only a routine order for a kafo to line up in the compound,which the boys did as quickly as usual. But Kunta felt a twingeof fear when the kin tango himself came from his hut, as herarely did at midday, and walked before them. "Hold out yourfotos," he commanded. They hesitated, not believing--orwanting to believe--what they had heard. "Now!" he shouted.Slowly and shyly, they obeyed, each keeping his eyes on theground as he reached inside his loincloth. Working their wayfrom either end of the line, the kin- tango's assistants wrappedaround the head of each boy's foto a short length of clothspread with a green paste made of a pounded leaf. "Soonyour fotos will have no feeling," the kin tango said, orderingthem back into their huts. Huddled inside, ashamed and afraidof what would happen next, the boys waited in silence untilabout mid after- Boon, when again they were ordered outside,where they stood watching as a number of men from Juffure--the Earners, brothers, and uncles who had come before, andothers--filed in through the gate. Omoro was among them, butthis time Kunta pretended that he didn't see his father. Themen formed themselves into a line facing the boys andchanted together: "This thing to be done... also has been doneto us... as to the forefathers before us... so that you also willbecome... all of us men together." Then the kin tango orderedthe boys back into their huts once again. Night was fallingwhen they heard many drums suddenly begin to pound justoutside the jujuo. Ordered out of their buts, they saw burstingthrough the gate about a dozen leaping, shouting kankurangdancers. In leafy branch costumes and bark masks, theysprang about brandishing their spears among the terrified

boys, "and then--just as abruptly as they had appeared--weregone. Almost numb with fear, the boys now heard and followeddumbly the kin tango order to seat themselves close togetherwith their backs against the jujuo's bamboo fence. The fathers,uncles, and older brothers stood nearby, this time chanting,"You soon will return to home... and to your farms.. . and intime you will marry... and life everlasting will spring from yourloins. " One of the kin- tango's assistants called out one boy'sname. As he got up, the assistant motioned him behind a longscreen of woven bamboo. Kunta couldn't see or hear whathappened after that, but a few moments later, the boyreappeared--with a bloodstained cloth between his legs.Staggering slightly, he was half carried by the other assistantback to his place along the bamboo fence. Another boy'sname was called; then another, and another, and finally: "Kunta Kinte! " Kunta was petrified. But he made himself getup and walk behind the screen. Inside were four men, one ofwhom ordered him to lie down on his back. He did so; hisshaking legs wouldn't have supported him any longer anyway.The men then leaned down, grasped him firmly, and lifted histhighs upward. Just before closing his eyes, Kunta saw the kintango bending over him with something in his hands. Then hefelt the cutting pain. It was even worse than he thought it wouldbe, though not as bad as it would have been without thenumbing paste. In a moment he was bandaged tightly, and anassistant helped him back outside, where he sat, weak anddazed, alongside the others who had already been behind thescreen. They didn't dare to look at one another. But the thingthey had feared above all else had now been done. As the

fotos of the kafo began healing, a general air of jubilation rosewithin the jujuo, for gone forever was the indignity of beingmere boys in body as well as in mind. Now they were verynearly men--and they were-boundless in their gratitude andreverence for the kin tango And he, in turn, began to seeKunta's kafo with different eyes. The old, wrinkled, gray-hairedelder whom they had slowly come to love was sometimesseen even to smile now. And very casually, when talking to thekafo, he or his assistants would say, "You men"--and to Kuntaand his mates, it seemed as unbelievable as it was beautifulto hear. Soon afterward the fourth new moon arrived, and twoor three members of Kunta's kafo, at the kin tango personalorder, began to leave the jujuo each night and trot all the wayto the sleeping village of Juffure, where they would slip likeshadows into their own mothers' storehouses, steal as muchcouscous, dried meats, and millet as they could carry, andthen race back with it to the jujuo, where it was gleefullycooked the next day"--to prove yourselves smarter than allwomen, even your mother," the kin tango had told them. Butthat next day, of course, those boys' mothers would boast totheir friends how they had heard their sons prowling and hadlain awake listening with pride. There was a new feeling nowin the evenings at the jujuo. Nearly always, Kunta's kafo wouldsquat in a semicircle around the kin tango Most of the time heremained as stem in manner as before, but now he talked tothem not as bumbling little boys but as young men of his ownvillage. Sometimes he spoke to them about the qualities ofmanhood--chief among which, after fearlessness, was totalhonesty in all things. And sometimes he spoke to them about

the forefathers. Worshipful regard was a duty owed by theliving to those who dwelled with Allah, he told them. He askedeach boy to name the ancestor he remembered best; Cuntanamed his Grandma Yaisa, and the kin tango said hat each ofthe ancestors the boys had named--as was the way ofancestors--was petitioning Allah in the best inter- ssts of theliving. Another evening, the kin tango told them how in one'svillage, every person who lived there was equally important tothat village; from the newest baby to the oldest elder. As lewmen, they must therefore learn to treat everyone with Shesame respect, and--as the foremost of their manhood iuties--to protect the welfare of every man, woman, and: hild in Juffureas they would their own. "When you return home," said the kintango "you will begin to serve Juffure as its eyes and ears. Youwill be ex- aected to stand guard over the village--beyond thegates as lookouts for toubob and other savages, and in thefields as sentries to keep the crops safe from scavengers.You will ilso be charged with the responsibility of inspectingthe ivomen's cooking pots--including those of your ownmothsrs--to make sure they are kept clean, and you will beexpected to reprimand them most severely if any dirt orinsects are found inside." The boys could hardly wait to be-; intheir duties. Though all but the oldest of them were still tooyoung to ire am of the responsibilities they would assumewhen they reached the fourth kafo, they knew that some day,as men rf fifteen to nineteen rains, they would be appointed tothe important job of carrying messages--like the young manwho had brought them word of the moro's visit--betweenFuffure and other villages. It would have been hard for Kunta's

kafo to imagine such a thing, but those old enough So bemessengers longed for nothing more than to stop beingnessengers; when they reached the fifth kafo at twenty rains,hey would graduate to really important work--assisting thetillage elders as emissaries and negotiators in all dealingswith other villages. Men of Onaoro's age--over thirty--rosegradually in rank and responsibility with each passing rain untilthey themselves acquired the honored status of siders. Kuntahad often proudly watched Omoro sitting on the edges of theCouncil of elders, and looked forward to the day when hisfather would enter the inner circle of those who would inheritthe mantle of office from such revered leaders as the kintango when they were called to Allah. It was no longer easy forKunta and the others to pay attention as they should toeverything the kin tango said. It seemed impossible to themthat so much could have happened in the past four moons andthat they were really about to become men. The past few daysseemed to last longer than the moons that preceded them, butfinally--with the fourth moon high and full in the heavens--thekin tango assistants ordered the kafo to line up shortly afterthe evening meal. Was this the moment for which they hadwaited? Kunta looked around for their fathers and brothers,who would surely be there for the ceremony. They werenowhere to be seen. And where was the kin tango His eyessearched the compound and found him--standing at the gateof the jujuo--just as he swung it open wide, turned to them, andcalled out: "Men of Juffure, return to your village!" For amoment they stood rooted; then they rushed up whooping andgrabbed and hugged their kin tango and his assistants, who

pretended to be offended by such impertinence. Four moonsbefore, as the hood was being lifted from his head in this verycompound, Kunta would have found it difficult to believe thathe would be sorry to leave this place, or that he would come tolove the stern old man who stood before them on that day; buthe felt both emotions now. Then his thoughts turned homewardand he was racing and shouting with the others out the gateand down the path to Juffure. They hadn't gone very far before,as if upon some unspoken signal, their voices were stilled andtheir pace slowed by the thoughts they all shared, each in hisown way--of what they were leaving behind, and of what layahead of them. This time they didn't need the stars to find theirway.

CHAPTER 26

"Aiee! Aiee!" The women's happy shrieks rang out, and hepeople were rushing from their huts, laughing, danc- ng, andclapping their hands as Kunta's kafo--and those who hadturned fifteen and become fourth kafo while they were away atthe jujuo--strode in through the village gate it the break ofdawn. The new men walked slowly, with what they hoped wasdignity, and they didn't speak or smile--at first. When he sawhis mother running toward him, Cunta felt like dashing to meether, and he couldn't stop is face from lighting up, but he madehimself continue walking at the same measured pace. ThenBinta was upon dm--arms around his neck, hands caressinghis cheeks, ears welling in her eyes, murmuring his name.Kunta pernitted this only briefly before he drew away, being

now i man; but he made it seem as if he did so only to get aletter look at the yowling bundle cradled snugly in the lingacross her back. Reaching inside, he lifted the baby mt withboth hands. "So this is my brother Madi!" he shouted happily,hold- ng him high in the air. Binta beamed at his side as hewalked toward her hut with the baby in his arms--making facesand cooing and queezing the plump little cheeks. But Kuntawasn't so aken with his little brother that he failed to notice theherd if naked children that followed close behind them withyes as wide as their mouths. Two or three were at his; nees,and others darted in and out among Binta and the therwomen, who were all exclaiming over how strong and healthyKunta looked, how manly he'd become. He >re tended not tohear, but it was music to his ears. Kunta wondered whereOmoro was, and where Lamin vas--remembering abruptly thathis little brother would >e away grazing the goats. He had satdown inside Binta's hut before he noticed that one of thebigger first-kafo children had followed them inside and nowstood staring at him and clinging to Binta's skirt. "Hello,Kunta," said the little boy. It was Suwadu! Kunta couldn'tbelieve it. When he had left for manhood training, Suwaduwas just something underfoot, too small to take notice ofexcept when he was annoying Kunta with his eternal whining.Now, within the space of four moons, he seemed to havegrown taller, and he was beginning to talk; he had become aperson. Giving the baby back to Binta, he picked up Suwaduand swung him high up to the roof of Binta's hut, until his littlebrother yelped with delight. When he finished visiting withSuwadu, who ran outside to see some of the other new men,

the hut fell silent. Brimming over with joy and pride, Binta feltno need to speak. Kunta did. He wanted to tell her how muchhe had missed her and how it gladdened him to be home. Buthe couldn't find the words. And he knew it wasn't the sort ofthing a man should say to a woman--even to his mother."Where is my father?" he asked finally. "He's cutting thatchgrass for your hut," said Binta. In his excitement, Kunta hadnearly forgotten that, as a man, he would now have his ownprivate hut. He walked outside and hurried to the place wherehis father had always told him one could cut the best quality ofroofing thatch. Omoro saw him coming, and Kunta's heartraced as he saw his father begin walking to meet him. Theyshook hands in the manner of men, each looking deeply intothe other's eyes, seeing the other for the first time as man toman. Kunta felt almost weak with emotion, and they weresilent for a moment. Then Omoro said, as if he werecommenting on the weather, that he had acquired for Kunta ahut whose previous owner had married and built a new house.Would he like to inspect the hut now? Kunta said softly that hewould and they walked along together, with Omoro doing mostof the talking, since Kunta was still having trouble findingwords. The hut's mud walls needed as many repairs as thethatching. But Kunta hardly noticed or cared, for this was hisown private hut, and it was all the way across the village fromhis mother's. He didn't allow himself to show his satisfaction,of course, let alone to speak of it [nstead, he told Omoro onlythat he would make the epairs himself. Kunta could fix thewalls, said Omoro, sut he would like to finish the roof repairshe had already leg un Without another word, he turned and

headed back: o the thatch-grass field--leaving Kunta standingthere, grateful for the everyday manner with which his fatheriad begun their new relationship as men. Kunta spent most ofthe afternoon covering every; orner of Juffure, filling his eyeswith the sight of all the iearly remembered faces, familiar hutsand haunts--the Ullage well, the schoolyard, the baobab andsilk-cotton: rees. He hadn't realized how homesick he hadbeen until ie began to bask in the greetings of everyone hepassed. He wished it was time for Lamin to return with thegoats, and found himself missing one other very specialperson,; ven if she was a woman. Finally--not caring whether itwas something a man should properly do--he headed for hesmall, weathered hut of old Nyo Boto. "Grandmother!" hecalled at the door. "Who is it?" came the reply in a high,cracked, irritable one. "Guess, Grandmotheri" said Kunta, andhe went inside the hut. It took his eyes a few moments to seeher better in the iim light. Squatting beside a bucket andplucking long Sbers from a slab of baobab bark that she hadbeen soaking with water from the bucket, she peered sharplyat lim for a while before speaking. "Kunta!" "It's so good tosee you. Grandmother!" he exclaimed. Nyo Boto returned toher plucking of the fibers. "Is your mother well?" she asked,and Kunta assured her Shat Binta was. He was a little takenaback, for her manner was almost is if he hadn't even beenaway anywhere, as if she hadn't noticed that he had become aman. "I thought of you often while I was away--each time [touched the sap hie charm you put on my arm." She onlygrunted, not even looking up from her work. He apologized forinterrupting her and quickly left, ieeply hurt and terribly

confused. He wouldn't understand until much later that herrebuff had hurt Nyo Boto sven more than it did him; she hadacted as she knew a woman must toward one who could nolonger seek comfort at her skirts. Still troubled, Kunta waswalking slowly back toward his new hut when he heard afamiliar commotion: bleating goats, barking dogs, andshouting boys. It was the second kafo returning from theirafternoon's work in the bush. Lamin would be among them.Kunta began to search their faces anxiously as the boysapproached. Then Lamin saw him, shouted his name, andcame dashing, wreathed in smiles. But he stopped short afew feet away when he saw his brother's cool expression, andthey stood looking at each other. It was finally Kunta whospoke. "Hello." "Hello, Kunta." Then they looked at each othersome more. Pride shone in Lamin's eyes, but Kunta saw alsothe same hurt he had just felt in the hut of Nyo Boto, anduncertainty about just what to make of his new big brother.Kunta was thinking that the way they were both acting wasn'tas he would have had it be, but it was necessary that a manbe regarded with a certain amount of respect, even by his ownbrother. Lamin was the first to speak again: "Your two goatsare both big with kids." Kunta was delighted; that meant hewould soon own four, maybe even five goats, if one of thosenannies was big with twins. But he didn't smile or actsurprised. "That's good news," he said, with even lessenthusiasm than he wanted to show. Not knowing what else tosay, Lamin dashed away without another word, hollering forhis wuolo dogs to reassemble his goats, which had begun towander. Binta's face kept a set, tight expression as she

assisted Kunta in moving to his own hut. His old clothes wereall outgrown, she said, and with her tone properly respectful,added that whenever he had time for her to measure himbetween the important things he had to do, she would sew himsome new clothes. Since he owned not much more than hisbow and arrows and his slingshot, Binta kept murmuring,"You'll need this" and "You'll need that," until she had providedhim with such household essentials as a pallet, some bowls, astool, and a prayer rug she had woven while he was away.With each new thing, as he had always heard his father do,Kunta would grunt, as if he could think of no objection to have-ng it in his house. When she noticed him scratching his lead,she offered to inspect his scalp for ticks, and he bluntly toldher "No!," ignoring the grumbling sounds she nade afterward.It was nearly midnight when Kunta finally slept, for nuch was onhis mind. And it seemed to him that his syes had hardly closedbefore the crowing cocks had waked him, and then came thesingsong call of the ilimamo to the mosque, for what would bethe first morn- ng prayer that he and his mates would beallowed to at- end with the other men of Juffure. Dressingquickly, Kunta took his new prayer rug and fell in among hissafo as, with heads bowed and rolled prayer rugs under iheirarms--as if they had done it all their lives--they altered thesacred mosque behind the other men of the village. Inside,Kunta and the others watched and copied svery act andutterance of the older men, being especially; areful to beneither too soft nor too loud in their reciting rf the prayers. Afterprayers, Binta brought breakfast to her new man's hut. Settingthe bowl of steaming couscous before Kunta--who just grunted

again, not letting his face say any- Shing--Binta left quickly,and Kunta ate without pleasure, Irritated by a suspicion thatshe had seemed to be suppressing something like mirth. Afterbreakfast, he joined his mates in undertaking their duties asthe eyes and ears of the village with a iiligence their eldersfound equally amusing. The women; ould hardly turn aroundwithout finding one of the new men demanding to inspect theircooking pots for insects. And rummaging around outsidepeople's huts and all around the village fence, they foundhundreds of spots where the state of repair failed to measureup to their exacting standards. Fully a dozen of them drew upbuckets of well water, tasting carefully from the gourd dipper inhopes of detecting a saltiness or a muddiness or somethingelse unhealthy. They were disappointed, but the fish and turtlethat were kept in the well to eat insects were removed anywayand replaced with fresh ones. The new men, in short, wereeverywhere. "They are thick as fleas!"old Nyo Boto snorted asKunta approached a stream where she was pounding laundryon a rock, and he all but sprinted off in another direction. Healso took special care to stay clear of any known place whereBinta might be, telling himself that although she was hismother, he would show her no special favors; that, indeed, hewould deal firmly with her if she ever made it necessary. Afterall, she was a woman.

CHAPTER 27

Juffure was so small, and its kafo of diligent new men sonumerous, it soon seemed to Kunta that nearly every roof,

wall, calabash, and cooking pot in the village had beeninspected, cleaned, repaired, or replaced moments before hegot to it. But he was more pleased than disappointed, for itgave him more time to spend farming the small plot assignedto his use by the Council of Elders. All new men grew theirown couscous or ground nuts some to live on and the rest totrade--with those who grew too little to feed their families--forthings they needed more than food. A young man who tendedhis crops well, made good trades, and managed his goatswisely--perhaps swapping a dozen goats for a female calf thatwould grow up and have other calves--could move ahead inthe world and become a man of substance by the time hereached twenty- five or thirty rains and began to think abouttaking a wife and raising sons of his own. Within a few moonsafter his return, Kunta had grown so much more than he couldeat himself, and made such shrewd trades for this or thathousehold possession to adorn his hut, that Binta began togrumble about it within his hearing. He had so many stools,wicker mats, food bowls, gourds, and sundry other objects inhis hut, she would mutter, that there was hardly any room leftinside for Kunta. But he charitably chose to ignore herimpertinence, since he slept now upon a fine bed of woveneeds over a springy bamboo mattress that she had spent alfamoon making for him. In his hut, along with several sap hieshe had acquired n exchange for crops from his farm plot, hekept a num-? er of other potent spiritual safeguards: theperfumed ex- iracts of certain plants and barks which, likeevery other Mandinka man, Kunta rubbed onto his forehead,upper inns, and thighs each night before going to bed. It was

relieved that this magical essence would protect a man Frompossession by evil spirits while he slept. It would ilso makehim smell good a thing that, along with his ippearance, Kuntahad begun to think about. He and the rest of his kafo werebecoming increasingly exasperated about a matter that hadbeen rankling their manly pride for many moons. When theywent off to man- liood training, they had left behind a group ofskinny, giggling, silly little girls who played almost as hard asthe boys. Then, after only four moons away, they had returnedas new men to find these same girls, with whom they hadgrown up, flouncing about wherever one looked, poking outtheir mango-sized breasts, tossing their heads and arms,showing off their jangly new earrings, beads, and bracelets.What irritated Kunta and the others wasn't so much that thegirls were behaving so absurdly, but that they seemed to bedoing so exclusively for the benefit of men at least ten rainsolder than themselves. For new men like Kunta, thesemaidens of marriageable age fourteen and fifteen hadscarcely a glance except to sneer or laugh. He and his matesfinally grew so disgusted with these airs and antics that theyresolved to pay no further attention either to the girls or to theall-too-willing older men they sought to entice with such flutterycoyness. But Kunta's foto would be as hard as his thumbsome mornings when he waked. Of course, it had been hardmany times before, even when he was Lamin's age; but now itwas much different in the feeling, very deep and strong. AndKunta couldn't help putting his hand down under his bed coverand tightly squeezing it. He also couldn't help thinking aboutthings he and his mates had overheard about fotos being put

into women. One night dreaming for ever since he was a smallboy, Kunta had dreamed a great deal, even when he wasawake, Binta liked to say--he found himself watching aharvest-festival seoruba, when the loveliest, longest-necked,sootiest-black maiden there chose to fling down her head-wrap for him to pick up. When he did so, she rushed homeshouting, "Kunta likes me!," and after careful consideration,her parents gave permission for them to marry. Omoro andBinta also agreed, and both fathers bargained for the brideprice. "She is beautiful," said Omoro, "but my concerns are ofher true value as my son's wife. Is she a strong, hard worker?Is she of pleasant disposition in the home? Can she cook welland care for children? And above all, is she guaranteed avirgin?" The answers were all yes, so a price was decidedand a date set' for the wedding. Kunta built a fine new mudhouse, and both mothers cooked bountiful delicacies, to giveguests the best impression. And on the wedding day, theadults, children, goats, chickens, dogs, parrots, and monkeysall but drowned out the musicians they had hired. When thebride's party arrived, the praise singer shouted of the finefamilies being joined together. Yet louder shouts rose whenthe bride's best girlfriends roughly shoved her inside Kunta'snew house. Grinning and waving to everyone, Kunta followedher and drew the curtain across the door. When she hadseated herself on his bed, he sang to her a famous ancestralsong of love: "Mandumbe, your long neck is very beautiful...."Then they lay down on Soft cured hides and she kissed himtenderly, and they clung together very tightly. And then the thinghappened, as Kunta had come to imagine it from the ways it

had been described to him. It was even greater than he hadbeen told, and the feeling grew and grew--until finally he burst.Jerking suddenly awake, Kunta lay very still for a longmoment, trying to figure out what had happened. Then, movinghis hand down between his legs, he felt the warm wetness onhimself--and on his bed. Frightened and alarmed, he leapedup, felt for a cloth, and wiped himself off, and the bed, too.Then, sitting there in the darkness, his fear was slowlyovertaken by embarrassment, his embarrassment by shame,his shame by pleasure, and his pleasure, finally, by a kind ofpride. Had this ever happened to any of his mates? hewondered. Though he hoped it had, he also hoped it hadn't,for perhaps this is what lap pens when one really becomes aman, he thought; and ie wanted to be the first. But Kunta knewthat he would lever know, for this experience and even thesethoughts weren't the kind he could ever share with anyone.Finally, exhausted and exhilarated, he lay down again andsoon ell into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER 28

Kunta knew every man, woman, child, dog, and goat in fuffure,he told himself one afternoon while he sat eating unch besidehis plot of ground nuts and in the course of us new duties, heeither saw or spoke with almost all of them nearly every day.Why, then, did he feel so alone? Was he an orphan? Did henot have a father who treated dim as one man shouldanother? Did he not have a mother who tended dutifully to hisneeds? Did he not have brothers to look up to him? As a new

man, was he not their idol? Did he not have the friendship ofthose with whom tie had played in the mud as children, herdedgoats as boys, returned to Juffure as men? Had he not earnedthe respect of his elders--and the envy of his kafo mates--forhusbanding his farm plot into seven goats, three chick- ins,and a splendidly furnished hut before reaching his sixteenthbirthday? He couldn't deny it. And yet he was lonely. Omorowas too busy to spend even as much time with Kunta as hehad when he had only one son and fewer responsibilities inthe village. Binta was busy too, taking care of Kunta's youngerbrothers, but his mother and he had little to say to one anotheranyway. Even he and Lamin were no longer close; while hehad been away at the jujuo, Suwadu had become Lamin'sadoring shadow as Lamin had once been Kunta's, and Kuntawatched with mixed emotions while Lamin's attitude towardhis little brother warmed from irritation to toleration toaffection. Soon they were inseparable, and this had left aslittle room for Kunta as it had for Madi, who was too young yetto join them but old enough to whine because they wouldn't lethim. On days when the two older boys couldn't get out of theirmother's hut fast enough, of course, Binta would often orderthem to take Madi along, so that she could get him out fromunderfoot, and Kunta would have to smile in spite of himself atthe sight of his three brothers marching around the village, onebehind the other, in the order of their births, with the two infront staring glumly ahead while the little one, smiling happily,brought up the rear, almost running to keep up. No one walkedbehind Kunta any longer, and not often did anyone choose towalk beside him either, for his kafo mates were occupied

almost every waking hour with their new duties and--perhaps,like him--with their own broodings about what had so farproved to be the dubious rewards of manhood. True, they hadbeen given their own farm plots and were beginning to collectgoats and other possessions. But the plots were small, thework hard, and their possessions were embarrassingly few incomparison to those of older men. They had also been madethe eyes and ears of the village, but the cooking pots werekept clean without their supervision, and nothing evertrespassed in the fields except occasional baboon families ordense flocks of birds. Their elders, it soon became clear, gotto do all the really important jobs, and as if to rub it in, gave thenew men only what they felt was the appearance of respect,as they had been given only the appearance of responsibility.Indeed, when they paid any attention at all to the younger men,the elders seemed to have as much difficulty as the younggirls of the village in restraining themselves from laughter,even when one of them performed the most challenging taskwithout a mistake. Well, someday he would be one of thoseolder men, Kunta told himself, and he would wear the mantleof manhood not only with more dignity but also with morecompassion and understanding toward younger men than heand his mates received now. Feeling restless--and a littlesorry for himself--that evening, Kunta left his hut to take asolitary walk. Though he had no destination in mind, his feetdrew him toward the circle of rapt children's faces glowing inthe light of rie campfire around which the old grandmotherswere elling their nightly stories to the first kafo of the village.Stopping close enough to listen--but not close enough o be

noticed listening--Kunta squatted down on his launches andpretended to be inspecting a rock at his eet while one of thewrinkled old women waved her kinny arms and jumped aroundthe clearing in front of he children as she acted out her story ofthe four thousand rave warriors of the King of Kasoon whohad been [riven into battle by the thunder of five hundred greatvar drums and the trumpeting of five hundred elephant- uskhorns. It was a story he had heard many times around he firesas a child, and as he looked at the wide-eyed faces f hisbrothers--Madi in the front row and Suwadu in the ck row--itsomehow made him feel sad to hear it again. With a sigh, herose and walked slowly away--his de- larture as unnoticed ashis arrival had been. At the fire yhere Lamin sat with otherboys his age chanting their Koranic verses, and the fire whereBinta sat with other aothers gossiping about husbands,households, children, looking, sewing, makeup, and hairdos,he felt equally unrelcome. Passing them by, he found himselffinally 'eneath the spreading branches of the baobab wherethe Then of Juffure sat around the fourth fire discussing village'usiness and other matters of gravity. As he had felt too "Id tobe wanted around the first fire, he felt too young to be wantedaround this one. But he had no place else to go, so Kuntaseated himself among those in the outer; ircle--beyond thoseof Omoro's age who sat closer to the fire, and those of the kintango age, who sat closest, imong the Council of Elders. Ashe did so, he heard one? f them ask: " Can anyone say howmany of us are getting stolen? " They were discussing slavetaking, which had been the main subject around the men's firefor the more than one ron dred rains that toubob had been

stealing people and shipping them in chains to the kingdom ofwhite cannibals across the sea. There was silence for a littlewhile, and then the alinamo said, "We can only thank Allah thatit's less now han it was." "There are fewer of us left to steal!"said an angry elder. "I listen to the drums and count the lost,"said the kin tango "Fifty to sixty each new moon just fromalong our part of the belong would be my guess." No one saidanything to that, and he added, "There is no way, of course, tocount the losses farther inland, and farther up the river." "Whydo we count only those taken away by the tou- bob?" askedthe arafang. "We must count also the burned baobabs wherevillages once stood. He has killed more in fires and in fightinghim than he has ever taken away!" The men stared at the firefor a long time, and then another elder broke the silence:"Toubob could never do this without help from our own people.Mandinkas, Fulas, Wolofs, Jolas--none of The Gambia'stribes is without its slatee traitors. As a child I saw theseslatees beating those like themselves to walk faster for thetoubobi" "For toubob money, we turn against our own kind,"said Juffure's senior elder. "Greed and treason--these are thethings toubob has given us in exchange for those he hasstolen away." No one talked again for a while, and the firesputtered quietly. Then the kin tango spoke again: "Evenworse than toubob's money is that he lies for nothing and hecheats with method, as naturally as he breathes. That's whatgives him the advantage over us." A few moments passed,and then a young man of the kafo ahead of Kunta's asked,"Will toubob never change?" "That will be," said one of theelders, "when the river flows backwardi" Soon the fire was a

pile of smoking embers, and the men began to get up, stretchthemselves, wish one another good night, and head home totheir huts. But five young men of the third kafo stayed behind--one to cover with dust the warm ashes of all the fires, and therest, including Kunta, to take the late shift as village lookoutsbeyond each corner of Juffure's high bamboo fence. Aftersuch alarming talk around the fire, Kunta knew he would haveno trouble staying awake, but he didn't look forward tospending this particular night beyond the safety of the village.Ambling through Juffure and out the gate with what he hopedwas nonchalance, Kunta waved to his fellow guards and madehis way along the outside of the fence--past the sharp-thomedbushes piled thickly against it, and the pointed stakesconcealed beneath them--to a leafy hiding place that affordedhim a silvery view of the surrounding countryside on thismoonlit night. Getting as comfortable as he could, he slung hisspear across his lap, drew up his knees, clasped his armsaround them for warmth, and settled in for the night Scanningthe bush with straining eyes for any sign of movement, helistened to the shrilling of crickets, the eerie whistling of nightbirds the distant howling of hyenas, and the shrieks of unwaryanimals taken by surprise, and he thought about the things themen had said around the fire. When dawn came withoutincident, he was almost as surprised that he hadn't been setupon by slave stealers as he was to realize that for the Brsttime in a moon, he hadn't spent a moment worrying about hispersonal problems.

CHAPTER 29

Fearly every day, it seemed to Kunta, Binta would irritate limabout something. It wasn't anything she would do or; ay, but inother ways--little looks, certain tones of voice -Kunta could tellshe disapproved of something about im. It was worst whenKunta added to his possessions ew things that Binta hadn'tobtained for him herself. One morning, arriving to serve hisbreakfast, Binta nearly dropped the steaming couscous uponKunta when she saw he was wearing his first dundiko notsewn with her own lands. Feeling guilty for having traded acured hyena hide to get it, Kunta angrily offered her noexplanation, though he could feel that his mother was deeplyhurt. From that morning on, he knew that Binta never roughthis meals without her eyes raking every item in us hut to see ifthere was anything else--a stool, a mat, i bucket, a plate, or apot--that she'd had nothing to do with. If something new hadappeared, Binta's sharp eyes would never miss it. Kuntawould sit there fuming while she put on that look of not caringand not noticing that he had seen her wear so many timesaround Omoro, who knew as well as Kunta did that Bintacould hardly wait to get to the village well among her womenfriends so that she could loudly bemoan her troubles whichwas what all Mandinka women did when they disagreed withtheir husbands. One day, before his mother arrived with themorning meal, Kunta picked up a beautifully woven basketthat Jinna M'Baki, one of Juffure's several widows, had givenhim as a gift, and he set it just inside the door of his hut, wherehis mother would be sure to all but stumble over it. The widowwas actually a little younger than Binta, it occurred to him.While Kunta was still a second-kafo goatherd, her husband

had gone away to hunt and never returned. She lived quitenear Nyo Boto, whom Kunta often visited, and that was howhe and the widow had seen each other and come to speak toeach other as Kunta had grown older. It had annoyed Kuntawhen the widow's gift caused some of Kunta's friends to teasehim about her reason for giving him a valuable bamboobasket. When Binta arrived at his hut and saw it recognizingthe widow's style of weaving she flinched as if the basket werea scorpion before managing to compose herself. She didn'tsay a word about it, of course, but Kunta knew he had madehis point. He was no longer a boy, and it was time for her tostop acting like his mother. He felt it was his own responsibilityto change her in that regard. It wasn't something to speak toOmoro about, for Kunta knew he couldn't put himself into theridiculous position of asking Omoro's advice on how to makeBinta respect her son the same as she did her husband.Kunta thought about discussing his problem with Nyo Boto,but changed his mind when he recalled how peculiarly shehad acted toward him upon his return from manhood training.So Kunta kept his own counsel, and before long he decidednot to go any more into Binta's hut, where he had lived most ofhis life. And when Binta brought his meals, he would sit stifflysilent while she set his food on the mat before him and leftwithout speaking or even looking at him. Kunta finally beganthinking seriously of seeking out some new eatingarrangement. Most of the other new young men still ate fromtheir mothers' kitchens, but some were cooked for by an oldersister or a sister-in-law. If Binta got any worse, Kunta toldhimself, he was going to find some other woman to cook for

him--perhaps the widow who had given him the woven basket.He knew without asking that she would gladly cook for him--and yet Kunta didn't want to let her know that he was evenconsidering such a thing. In the meantime, he and his mothercontinued to meet at mealtimes--and to act as if they didn'teven see each other. Early one morning, returning from a nightof sentry duty out in the groundnut fields, Kunta saw hurryingalong the trail some distance ahead of him three young menwhom he could tell were about his own age, and whom heknew had to be travelers from somewhere else. Shouting untilthey turned around, he went running to meet and greet them.They told Kunta they were from the village of Barra, a day anda night of walking from Juffure, and they were on their way tohunt for gold. They were of the Feloop tribe, which was abranch of Mandinka, but he bad to listen carefully tounderstand them, as they did to understand him. It madeKunta remember his visit with his father to his uncles' newvillage, where he couldn't understand what some people weresaying, although they lived only two or three days away fromJuffure. Kunta was intrigued by the trip the young men weretaking. He thought it might also interest some of his friends, sohe asked the young men to stop in his village for a day ofhospitality before they went on. But they graciously refused theinvitation, saying that they had to reach the place where thegold could be panned by the third afternoon of travel. "But whydon't you come along with us?" one of the young men askedKunta. Never having dreamed of such a thing, Kunta was sotaken aback that he found himself saying no, telling them thatas much as he appreciated the offer, he had much work to do

on his farm, as well as other duties. And the three young menexpressed their regret "If you should change your mind,please join us," one said. And they got down on their kneesand drew in the dust to show Kunta where the gold-huntingplace was located--about two days and nights of travelbeyond Juffure. The father of one of the boys, a travelingmusician, had told them where it was. Kunta walked alongtalking with his newfound friends until they came to where thetravelers' trail forked. After the three men took the fork that ledon past Juffure--and turned to wave back to him--Kuntawalked slowly home. He was thinking hard as he entered hishut and lay down on his bed, and though he had been awakeall night, he still couldn't seem to fall asleep. Perhaps he mightgo to hunt gold after all if he could find a friend to tend his farmplot. And he knew that someone of his mates would take overhis sentry duties if they were only asked--as he would gladlydo if they asked him. Kunta's next thought hit him so hard itmade him leap right up out of bed: As a man now, he couldtake Lamin along, as his father had once taken him. For thenext hour Kunta paced the dirt floor of his hut, his mindwrestling with the questions raised by this exciting thought.First of all, would Omoro permit such a trip for Lamin, whowas yet a boy and thus required his father's approval? It galledKunta enough, as a man, to have to ask permission foranything; but suppose Omoro said no? And how would histhree new friends feel about it if he showed up with his littlebrother? Come to think of it, Kunta wondered why he waspacing the floor, and risking serious embarrassment, just todo a favor for Lamin. After all, ever since he had returned from

manhood training, Lamin hadn't even been that close to himany more. But Kunta knew that this wasn't something thateither of them wanted. They had really enjoyed each otherbefore Kunta went away. But now Lamin's time was taken upby Suwadu, who was always hanging around his biggerbrother in the same way that Lamin used to hang aroundKunta, full of pride and admiration. But Kunta felt that Laminhad never quit feeling that way about him. If anything, he felt(hat Lamin admired his big brother even more than before. Itwas just that some kind of distance had come between thembecause of his having become a man. Men simply spent nogreat deal of time with boys; and even if that wasn't as he andLamin wanted it, there just seemed no way for either of themto crack through it--until Kunta thought of taking Lamin alongon his gold-hunting trip. "Lamin is a good boy. He displays hishome training well. And he takes good care of my goats," wasKunta's opening comment to Omoro, for Kunta knew that menUmost never began conversations directly with what theyneant to discuss. Omoro, of course, knew this, too. He loddedslowly and replied: "Yes, I would say that is true." \s calmly ashe could, Kunta then told his father of meet- ng his three newfriends and of their invitation to join hem in hunting for gold.Taking a deep breath, Kunta said finally, "I've been thinkingthat Lamin might enjoy he trip." Omoro's face showed not aflicker of expression. A long noment passed before he spoke."For a boy to travel is; ood," he said--and Kunta knew that hisfather was at east not going to say no absolutely. In some way,Kunta; ould feel his father's trust in him, but also his concern,which he knew Omoro didn't want to express any more

strongly than he had to. "It has been rains since I've had mytravel in that area. I seem not to remember that trail's oute verywell," said Omoro, as casually as if they were nerelydiscussing the weather. Kunta knew that his father--whomKunta had never known to forget anything--was trying to findout if he knew the route to the gold-hunting place. Droppingonto his knees in the dust, Kunta drew the trail with a stick asif he had known it for years. He drew; ircles to show thevillages that were both near the trail and at some distancefrom it along the way. Omoro got town onto his knees as well,and when Kunta had finished ira wing the trail, said, "I wouldgo so as to pass close by the most villages. It will take a littlelonger, but it will be the safest." Kunta nodded, hoping that heappeared more confident than he suddenly felt. The thought hithim that though the three friends he had met, travelingtogether, could catch each other's mistakes--if they made any--he, traveling with a younger brother for whom he would beresponsible, would have no one to help if something wentwrong. Then Kunta saw Omoro's finger circling the last third ofthe trail. "In this area, few speak Mandinka," Omoro said.Kunta remembered the lessons of his manhood training andlooked into his father's eyes. "The sun and the stars will tell methe way," he said. A long moment passed, and then Omorospoke again. "I think I'll go by your mother's house." Kunta'sheart leaped. He knew it was his father's way of saying thathis permission was given, and he felt it best that he personallymake his decision known to Binta. Omoro wasn't long inBinta's hut. He had hardly left' to return to his own when sheburst out her door, hands pressed tightly to her shaking head.

"Madi! Suwadu!" she shrieked, and they came rushing to herfrom among the other children. Now other mothers came fromtheir huts, and unmarried girls, all rushing behind Binta as shebegan hollering and pulling the two boys alongside her towardthe well. Once there, all of the women crowded about her asshe wept and moaned that now she had only two children left,that her others certainly would soon be lost to toubob. Asecond-kafo girl, unable to contain the news of Kunta's tripwith Lamin, raced all the way out to where the boys of her kafowere grazing the goats. A short time later, back in the village,heads jerked around with smiles on their faces as a deliriouslyjoyful boy came whooping into the village in a manner fit towake the ancestors. Catching up with his mother just outsideher hut, Lamin--though still a hand's span shorter than she--bear hugged Binta, planted big kisses on her forehead andswept her whirling up off her feet as she shouted to be putdown. Once back on the ground, she ran to pick up a nearbypiece of wood and struck Lamin with it. She would have doneit again, but he dashed away--feeling no pain--toward Kunta'shut. He didn't even knock as he burst inside. It was anunthinkable intrusion into a man's house--but after a glimpseat his brother's face, Kunta had to overlook it. Lamin just stoodthere, looking up into the face of his big brother. The boy'smouth was trying to say something; indeed, his whole bodywas trembling, and Kunta had to catch himself to keep fromgrabbing and hugging Lamin in the rush of love he felt passingbetween them in that moment. Kunta heard himself speaking,his tone almost gruff. "I see you've already heard. We'll leavetomorrow after first prayer." Man or not, Kunta took care to

walk nowhere near Binta as he made several quick calls tosee friends about caring for his farm and filling in for him onsentry duty. Kunta could tell where Binta was from the sound ofher wailing as she marched around the village holding Madiand Suwadu by the hand. "These two only I have left!" shecried, as loudly as she could. But like everyone else in Juffure,she knew that no matter what she felt or said or did, Omorohad spoken.

CHAPTER 30

At the travelers' tree, Kunta prayed for their journey to be asafe one. So that it would be a prosperous one as well, hetied the chicken he had brought along to a lower branch byone of its legs, leaving it flapping and squawking there as heand Lamin set forth on the trail. Though he didn't turn back tolook, Kunta knew Lamin was trying very hard to keep pacewith him, and to keep his head- load balanced--and to keepKunta from noticing either. After an hour, the trail took them bya low, spreading tree strung thickly with beads. Kunta wantedto explain to Lamin how such a tree meant that living nearbywere some of the few Mandinkas who were kafirs, paganunbelievers who used snuff and smoked tobacco in pipesmade of wood with earthen bowls, and also drank a beer theymade of mead. But more important than that knowledge wasfor Lamin to learn the discipline of silent marching. Bynoontime, Kunta knew that Lamin's feet and legs would behurting him badly, and also his neck under the heavy headload But it was only by keeping on despite pain that a boy

could toughen his body and his spirit. At the same time, Kuntaknew that Lamin must stop for rest before he collapsed, whichwould hurt his pride. Taking the bypass trail to miss the firstvillage they passed, they soon shook off the naked little first-kafo children who raced out to inspect them. Kunta still didn'tlook back, but he knew that Lamin would have quickened hispace and straightened his back for the children's benefit. Butas they left the children and the village behind, Kunta's minddrifted off Lamin to other things. He thought again of the drumhe was going to make for himself--making it first in his mind,as the men did who carved out masks and figures. For thedrum's head, he had a young goat's skin already scraped andcuring in his hut, and he knew just the place--only a short trotbeyond the women's rice fields--where he could find the toughwood he needed for a strong drum frame Kunta could almosthear how his drum was going to sound. As the trail took theminto a grove of trees close by the path, Kunta tightened hisgrip on the spear he carried, as he had been taught to do.Cautiously, he continued walking--then stopped and listenedvery quietly. Lamia stood wide-eyed behind him, afraid tobreathe. A moment later, however, his big brother relaxed andbegan walking again, toward what Kunta recognized--withrelief--as the sound of several men singing a working song.Soon he and Lamia came into a clearing and saw twelve mendragging a dugout canoe with ropes. They had felled a treeand burned and chopped it out, and now they were starting tomove it the long way to the river. After each haul on the ropes,they sang the next line of the song, each one ending "All forestrather than near the riverbank: They were from the dugout

about another arm's length. Waving to the men, who wavedback, Kunta passed them and made a mental note to tellLamin later who these men were and why they had made thecanoe from a tree that grew here in the forest rather than nearthe riverbank: They were from the village of Kerewan, wherethey made the best Mandinka dugouts; and they knew thatonly forest trees would float. Kunta thought with a rush ofwarmth about the three young men from Barra whom theywere traveling to meet. It was strange that though they neverhad seen each other before, they seemed as brothers.Perhaps it was because they too were Mandinkas. They saidthings differently than he did, but they weren't different inside.Like them, he had decided to leave his village to seek hisfortune--and a little excitement--before returning to homeahead of the next big rains. When the time neared for thealansaro prayer in mid- afternoon, Kunta stepped off the trailwhere a small stream ran among trees. Not looking at Lamin,he slipped off his head load flexed himself, and bent to scoopup handfuls of water in order to splash his face. He dranksparingly, then in the midst of his prayer, he heard Lamin'shead load thud to the earth. Springing up at the end of theprayer intending to rebuke him, he saw how painfully hisbrother was crawling toward the water. But Kunta still madehis voice hard: "Sip a little at a time!" As Lamin drank, Kuntadecided that an hour's resting here would be long enough.After eating a few bites of food, he thought, Lamin should beable to keep walking until time for the fitiro prayer, at aboutdusk, when a fuller meal and a night's rest would be welcomedby them both. But Lamin was too tired even to eat. He lay

where he had drunk from the stream, face down with his armsflung out, palms up. Kunta stepped over quietly to look at thesoles of his feet; they weren't bleeding yet. Then Kunta himselfcatnapped, and when he got up he took from his head loadenough dried meat for two. Shaking Lamin awake, he gavehim his meat and ate his own. Soon they were back on thetrail, which made all the turns and passed all the landmarksthe young men from Barra had drawn for Kunta. Near onevillage, they saw two old grandmothers and two young girlswith some first-kafo children busily catching crabs, dartingtheir bands into a little stream and snatching out their prey.Near dusk, as Lamin began to grab more and more often athis head load Kunta saw ahead a flock of large bush fowlcircling down to land. Abruptly he stopped, concealing himself,as Lamin sank onto his knees behind a bush nearby. Kuntapursed his lips, making the male bushfowl mating call, andshortly several fat, fine hens came flapping and waddling over.They were cocking their heads and looking around whenKunta's arrow went straight through one. Jerking its head off,he let the blood drain out, and while the bird roasted he built arough bush shelter, then prayed. He also roasted some earsof wild corn that he had plucked along the way beforeawakening Lamin, who had fallen asleep again the momentthey put their head loads down. Hardly had Lamin wolfeddown his meal before he flopped back down onto the softmoss under a slanting roof of leafy boughs and went back tosleep without a murmur. Kunta sat hugging his knees in thenight's still air. Not far away, hyenas began yipping. For sometime, he diverted himself by identifying the other sounds of the

forest. Then three times he faintly heard a melodious horn. Heknew it was the next village's final prayer call, blown by theiralimamo through a hollowed elephant's tooth. He wished thatLamin had been awake to hear its haunting cry, which wasalmost like a human voice, but then he smiled, for his brotherwas beyond caring what anything sounded like. Then himselfpraying, Kunta also slept. Soon after sunrise, they werepassing that village and hearing the drumming rhythm of thewomen's pestles pounding couscous for breakfast porridge.Kunta could almost taste it; but they didn't stop. Not farbeyond, down the trail, was another village, and as they wentby, the men were leaving their mosque and the women werebustling around their cooking fires. Still farther on, Kunta sawahead of them an old man sitting beside the trail. He was bentnearly double over a number of cowrie shells, which he wasshuffling and reshuffling on a plaited bamboo mat whilemumbling to himself. Not to interrupt him, Kunta was about topass by when the old man looked up and hailed them over towhere he sat. "I come from the village of Kootacunda, which isin the kingdom of Wooli, where the sun rises over the Simbaniforest," he said in a high, cracking voice. "And where may yoube from?" Kunta told him the village of Juffure, and the oldman nodded. "I have heard of it." He was consulting hiscowries, he said, to learn their next message about hisjourney to the city of Timbuktu, "which I want to see before Idie," and he wondered if the travelers would care to be of anyhelp to him. "We are poor, but happy to share whatever wehave with you. Grandfather," said Kunta, easing off his headload reaching within it and withdrawing some dried meat,

which he gave the old man, who thanked him and put the foodin his lap.

Peering at them both, he asked,

"You are brothers traveling?" "We are. Grandfather," Kuntareplied. "That is good!" the old man said, and picked up twoof his cowries. "Add this to those on your hunting bag, and itwill bring you a fine profit," he said to Kunta, handing him oneof the cowries. "And you, young man," he said to Lamin,giving him the other, "keep this for when you become a manwith a bag of your own." They both thanked him, and hewished them Allah's blessings. They had walked on for quite awhile when Kunta iecided that the time was ripe to break hissilence with Lamin. Without stopping or turning, he began tospeak: There is a legend, little brother, that it was travelingMandinkas who named the place where that old man is?ound. They found there a kind of insect they had never seenbefore and named the place Tumbo Kutu," which neans 'newinsect." " When there was no response from Lamin, Kuntaturned his head; Lamin was well behind,:>ent down over hishead load--which had fallen open on he ground--andstruggling to tie it back together. As ECunta trotted back, herealized that Lamin's grabbing at lis bead load had finallycaused it to work its bindings loose and that he had somehoweased it off his head without making any noise, not wanting tobreak the rule of Hence by asking Kunta to stop. While Kuntawas retying he head load he saw that Lamin's feet werebleeding; but his was to be expected, so he said nothing of it.

The tears ihone in Lamin's eyes as he got the load back onhis head, nd they went on. Kunta upbraided himself that hehadn't missed Lamin's presence and might have left himbehind. They hadn't walked much farther when Lamin let out a;hoked scream. Thinking he had stepped on a thorn, Kuntaturned--and saw his brother staring upward at a lig pantherflattened on the limb they would have walked inder in anothermoment. The panther went sssss, then seemed to flow almostlazily into the branches of a tree nd was gone from sight.Shaken, Kunta resumed walking, ilanned and angry andembarrassed at himself. Why had ie not seen that panther?The odds were that it was only wishing to remain unseen andwouldn't have sprung down Jpon them, for unless the big catswere extremely hungry, they rarely attacked even their animalprey during the day- ight, and humans seldom at any time,unless they were; ornered, provoked, or wounded. Still, apicture flashed through Kunta's memory of the panther-mangled nanny oat from his goat-herding days. He couldalmost hear the kin tango stem warning: "The hunter's sensesmust be fine. He must hear what others cannot, smell whatothers cannot. He must see through the darkness. " But whilehe had been walking along with his own thoughts wandering, itwas Lamin who had seen the panther. Most of his badtroubles had come from that habit, which he absolutely mustcorrect, he thought. Bending quickly without breaking pace,Kunta picked up a small stone, spit on it three times, andhurled it far back down the trail, the stone having thus carriedbehind them the spirits of misfortune. They walked on with thesun burning down upon them as the country gradually changed

from green forest to oil palms and muddy, dozing creeks,taking them past hot, dusty villages where--just as in Juffure--first-kafo children ran and screamed around in packs, wheremen lounged under the baobab and women gossiped besidethe well. But Kunta wondered why they let their goats wanderaround these villages, along with the dogs and chickens,rather than keep them either out grazing or penned up, as inJuffure. He decided that they must be an odd, different kind ofpeople. They pushed on over grass less sandy soil sprinkledwith the burst dry fruit of weirdly shaped baobab. When thetime came to pray, they rested and ate lightly, and Kunta wouldcheck Lamin's head bundle and his feet, whose bleeding wasnot so bad any more. And the crossroads kept unfolding like apicture, until finally there was the huge old shell of a baobabthat the young men from Barra had described. It must havebeen hundreds of rains old to be dying at last, he thought, andhe told Lamin what one of the young men had told him: "Agriot rests inside there," adding from his own knowledge thatgriots were always buried not as other people were but withinthe shells of ancient baobabs, since both the trees and thehistories in the heads of griots were timeless. "We're closenow," Kunta said, and he wished he had the drum he wasgoing to make, so that he could signal ahead to his friends.With the sinking of the sun, they finally reached the clay pits--and there were the three young men. "We felt you wouldcome!" they shouted, happy to see him. They merely ignoredLamin as if he were their own second-kafo brother. Amid brisktalk, the three young men proudly showed the tiny grains ofgold they had collected. By the next morning's first light, Kunta

and Lamin had joined in, chopping up chunks of sticky clay,which they dropped into. large calabashes of water. Afterwhirling the calabash, then slowly pouring off most of themuddy water, they carefully felt with their fingers to see if anygold grains had sunk to the bottom. Now and then there was agrain as tiny as a millet seed, or maybe a little larger. Theyworked so feverishly that there was no time for talk. Laminseemed even to forget his aching muscles in the search forgold. And each precious grain went carefully into the hollow ofthe largest quills from bush pigeons' wings, stoppered with abit of cotton. Kunta and Lamin had six quills full when the threeyoung men said they'd collected enough. Now, they said,they'd like to go farther up the trail, deeper into the interior ofthe country, to hunt elephants' teeth. They said they had beentold where old elephants sometimes broke off their teeth intrying to uproot small trees and thick bush while feeding. Theyhad heard also that if one could ever find the secretgraveyards of the elephants, a fortune in teeth would be there.Would Kunta join them? He was sorely tempted; this soundedeven more exciting than hunting for gold. But he couldn't go--not with Lamin. Sadly he thanked them for the invitation andsaid he must return home with his brother. So warm farewellswere exchanged, but not before Kunta had made the youngmen accept his invitation to stop for hospitality in Juffure ontheir way home to Barra. The trip back seemed shorter toKunta. Lamin's feet bled worse, but he walked faster whenKunta handed him the quills to carry, saying, "Your mothershould enjoy these." Lamin's happiness was no greater thanhis own at having taken his brother traveling, just as their

father had done for him--just as Lamin would one day takeSuwadu, and Suwadu would take Madi. They wereapproaching Juffure's travelers' tree when Kunta heardLamin's head- load fall off again. Kunta whirled angrily, butthen he saw his brother's pleading expression. "All right, get itlater!" he snapped. Without a word, his aching muscles andhis bleeding feet forgotten, Lamin bolted past Kunta for thevillage, his thin legs racing faster than they'd ever taken him.By th& time Kunta entered the village gate, excited womenand children were clustered around Binta, who was stickingthe six quills of gold into her hair, clearly bursting with reliefand happiness. A moment later, Binta's and Kunta's facesexchanged a look of tenderness and warmth far beyond theusual greetings that passed between mother and her grown-up son home from traveling. The women's clacking tonguessoon let everyone in Juffure know what the two oldest Kintesons had brought home with them. "There's a cow on Binta'shead!" shouted an old grand- mother--there was enough goldin the quills to buy a cow--and the rest of the women took upthat cry. "You did well," said Omoro simply when Kunta methim. But the feeling they shared without further words waseven greater than with Binta. In the days that followed, eldersseeing Kunta around the village began to speak to him andsmile in a special way, and he solemnly replied with hisrespects. Even Suwadu's little second-kafo mates greetedKunta as a grown-up, saying "Peace!" and then Standing withpalms folded over their chests until he passed by. Kunta evenchanced to overhear Binta one day gossiping about "the twomen I feed," and he was filled with pride that his mother had

finally realized he was a man. It was all right with Kunta nownot only for Binta to feed him, but even to do such things assearching on Kunta's head for ticks, as she had beenresenting not doing. And Kunta felt it all right now also to visither hut again now and then. As for Binta, she bustled about allsmiles, even humming to herself as she cooked. In an offhandmanner, Kunta would ask if she needed him to do anything;she would say so if she did, and he did whatever it was assoon as he could. If he but glanced at Lamin or Suwadu, whenthey were playing too loudly, for example, they were instantlystill and quiet. And Kunta liked tossing Madi into the air,catching him as he fell, and Madi liked it even more. As forLamin, he clearly regarded his man-brother as rankingsecond only to Allah. He cared for Kunta's seven goats--whichwere multiplying well--as if they were goats of gold, and heeagerly helped Kunta to raise his small farm plot of couscousand ground nuts Whenever Binta needed to get some workdone around the hut, Kunta would' take all three children offher hands, and she would stand smiling in her doorway as hemarched off with Madi on his shoulder, Lamin following--strutting like a rooster--and Suwadu jealously tagging alongbehind. It was nice, thought Kunta--so nice that he caughthimself wishing that he might have a family of his own like thissomeday. But not until the time comes, of course, he toldhimself; and that's a long way off.

CHAPTER 31

As new men were permitted to do whenever there was no

conflict with their duties, Kunta and others of his kafo would sitat the outermost edges of the formal sessions of the Councilof Elders, which were held once each moon under Juffure'sancient baobab. Sitting beneath it on cured hides very closetogether, the six senior elders seemed almost as old as thetree, Kunta thought, and to have been carved from the samewood, except that they were as black as ebony against thewhite of their long robes and round skullcaps. Seated facingthem were those with troubles or disputes to be resolved.Behind the petitioners, in rows, according to their ages, satjunior elders such as Omoro, and behind them sat the newmen of Kunta's kafo. And behind them the village womencould sit, though they rarely attended except when someone intheir immediate family was involved in a matter to be heard.Once in a long while, all the women would be present--but onlyif a case held the promise of some juicy gossip. No women atall attended when the Council met to discuss purelyadministrative affairs, such as Juffure's relationship with othervillages. On the day for matters of the people, however, theaudience was large and noisy--but all settled quickly intosilence when the most senior of the elders raised his stick,sewn with bright-colored beads, to strike out on the talkingdrum before him the name of the first person to be heard. Thiswas done according to their ages, to serve the needs of theoldest first. Whoever it was would stand, stating his case, thesenior elders all staring at the ground, listening until hefinished and sat down. At this point, any of the elders mightask him questions. If the matter involved a dispute, the secondperson now presented his side, followed by more questions,

whereupon the elders turned around to present their backs asthey huddled to discuss the matter, which could take a longtime. One or more might turn with further questions. But allfinally turned back around toward the front, one motioning theperson or persons being heard to stand again, and the seniorelder then spoke their decision, after which the next name wasdrum talked Even for new men like Kunta, most of thesehearings were routine matters. People with babies recentlyborn asked for a bigger farm plot for the husband and anadditional rice plot for the wife--requests that were almostalways quickly granted, as were the first farming-land requestsof unmarried men like Kunta and his mates. During man-training, the kin tango had directed them never to miss anyCouncil of Elders sessions unless they had to, as thewitnessing of its decisions would broaden a man's knowledgeas his own rains increased until he too would be a seniorelder. Attending his first session, Kunta had looked at Omoroseated ahead of him, wondering how many hundreds ofdecisions his father must have in his head, though he wasn'teven a senior elder yet. At his first session, Kunta witnessed aland matter involving a dispute. Two men both claimed the fruitof some trees originally planted by the first man on land towhich the second man now had the farming rights, since thefirst man's family had decreased. The Council of Eldersawarded the fruit to the first man, saying, "If he hadn't plantedthe trees, that fruit wouldn't be there." At later sessions, Kuntasaw people frequently charged with breaking or losingsomething borrowed from an irate lender who claimed that thearticles had been both valuable and brand-new. Unless the

borrower had witnesses to disprove that, he was usuallyordered to pay for or replace the article at the value of a newone. Kunta also saw furious people accusing others ofinflicting bad fortune on them through evil magic. One mantestified that another had touched him with a cock's spur,making him violently ill. A young wife declared that her newmother-in-law had hidden some bourein shrub in the wife'skitchen, causing whatever was cooked there to turn out badly.And a widow claimed that an old man whose advances shehad spurned had sprinkled powdered eggshells in her path,making her walk into a long succession of troubles, which sheproceeded to describe. If presented, with enough impressiveevidence of evil magic's motives and results, the Councilwould command immediate corrective magic to be done bythe nearest traveling magic man, whom a drum talk messagewould summon to Juffure at the expense of the evildoer. Kuntasaw debtors ordered to pay up, even if they had to sell theirpossessions; or with nothing to sell, to work off the amount asthe lender's slave. He saw slaves charging their masters withcruelty, or with providing unsuitable food or lodgings, or withtaking more than their half share of what the slaves' work hadproduced. Masters, in turn, accused slaves of cheating byhiding some of their produce, or of insufficient work, or ofdeliberately breaking farm tools. Kunta saw the Council weighcarefully the evidence in these cases, along with eachperson's past record in the village, and it was not uncommonfor some slaves' reputations to be better than their masters'!But sometimes there was no dispute between a master andhis slave. Indeed, Kunta saw them coming together asking

permission for the slave to marry into the master's family. Butany couple intending to marry first had to obtain the Council'spermission. Couples judged by the Council to be too close ofkinship were refused out of hand, but for those not thusdisqualified, there was a waiting period of one moon betweenthe request and the reply, during which the villagers wereexpected to pay quiet visits to any senior elder and reveal anyprivate information, either good or bad, about the couple inquestion. Since childhood, had each of them alwaysdemonstrated a good home training? Had either of them evercaused undue trouble to anyone, including their own families?Had either of them ever displayed any undesirable tendenciesof any kind, such as cheating or telling less than the full truth?Was the girl known for being irritable and argumentative? Wasthe man known for beating goats' unmercifully If so, themarriage was refused, for it was believed that such a personmight pass these traits along to his or her children. But asKunta knew even before he began attending the Councilsessions, most couples won approval for marriage, becauseboth sets of parents involved had already learned the answersto these questions, and found them satisfactory, beforegranting their own permission. At the Council sessions,however, Kunta learned that sometimes parents hadn't beentold things that people did tell the senior elders. Kunta sawone marriage permission flatly refused when a witness cameforth to testify that the young man of the planned marriage, asa young goatherd, had once stolen a basket from him, thinkinghe hadn't been seen. The crime hadn't been reported then, outof compassion for the fact that he was still a boy; if it had been

reported, the law would have dictated that his right hand becut off. Kunta sat riveted as the young thief, exposed at last,burst into tears, blurting out his guilt before his horrifiedparents and the girl he was asking to marry, who beganscreaming. Soon afterward, he disappeared from Juffure andwas never seen or heard of again. After attending Councilsessions for a number of moons, Kunta guessed that mostproblems for the senior elders came from married people--especially from men with two, three, or four wives. Adulterywas the most frequent charge by such men, and unpleasantthings happened to an offending man if a husband'saccusation was backed up with convincing outside testimonyor other strong evidence. If a wronged husband was poor andthe offending man well off, the Council might order theoffender to deliver his possessions to the husband, one at atime, until the husband said "I have enough," which might notbe until the adulterer had only his bare hut left. But with bothmen poor, which was usually the case, the Council might orderthe offender to work as the husband's slave for a period oftime considered worth the wrongful use of his wife. And Kuntaflinched for one repeated offender when the elders set a dateand time for him to receive a public flogging of thirty-ninelashes across his bare back by his most recently wrongedhusband, according to the ancient Moslem rule of "forty, saveone." Kunta's own thoughts about getting married cooledsomewhat as he watched and listened to (he angry testimonyof injured wives and husbands before the Council. Mencharged that their wives failed to respect them, were undulylazy, were unwilling to make love when their turn came, or

were just generally impossible to live with. Unless an accusedwife presented a strong counter argument with somewitnesses to bear her out, the senior elders usually told thehusband to go that day and set any three possessions of hiswife's outside her hut and then utter toward thosepossessions, three times, with witnesses present, the words,"I divorce you! " A wife's most serious charge--certain to bringout every woman in the village if it was suspected in advance--was to claim that her husband was not a man, meaning that hewas inadequate with her in bed. The elders would appointthree old persons, one from the family of the defiant wife,another from the family of the husband, and the third fromamong the elders themselves. A date and time would be setfor them to observe the wife and husband together in his bed.If two of the three voted that the wife was right, she won herdivorce, and her family kept the dowry goats; but if twoobservers voted that the husband performed well, he not onlygot the goats back but also could beat the wife and divorceher if he wished to. In the rains since Kunta had returned frommanhood training, no case that had been considered by theCouncil filled him and his mates with as much anticipation asthe one that began with gossip and whispering about twoolder members of their own kafo and a pair of Juffure's mosteligible widows. On the day the matter finally came before theCouncil, nearly everyone in the village gathered early toassure themselves of the best possible seats. A number ofroutine old people's problems were settled first, and thencame the case of Dembo Dabo and Kadi Tamba, who hadbeen granted a divorce more than a rain before but now were

back before the Council grinning widely and holding handsand asking permission to remarry. They stopped grinningwhen the senior elder told them sternly: "You insisted ondivorce; therefore you may not remarry--until each of you hashad another wife and husband in between." The gasps fromthose in the rear were hushed by the drum talk announcementof the next names to be called: "Tuda Tamba and KaliluConteh! Parrta Bedeng and Sefo Kela!" The two members ofKunta's kafo and the two widows stood up. The taller widow,Fanta Bedeng, spoke for all of them, sounding as if she hadcarefully practiced what to say; but nervousness still grippedher. "Tuda Tamba with her thirty-two rains and I with my thirty-three have small chance of catching more husbands," shesaid, and proceeded to ask the Council to approve of teriyafriendships for her and Tuda Tamba to cook for and sleep withSefo Kela and Kalilu Conteh, respectively. Different eldersasked a few questions of all four--the widows respondingconfidently, Kunta's friends uncertainly, in sharp contrast totheir usual boldness of manner. And then the elders turnedaround, murmuring among themselves. The audience was sotense and quiet that a dropped groundnut could have beenheard as the elders finally turned back around. The seniorelder spoke: "Allah would approve! You widows will have aman to use, and you new men will get valuable experience forwhen you marry later." The senior elder rapped his stick twicehard against the edge of the talking drum and glared at thebuzzing women in the rear. Only when they fell silent was thenext name called: "Jankeh Jallon!" Having but fifteen rains,she was thus the last to be heard. All of Juffure had danced

and feasted when she found her way home after escapingfrom some toubob who had kidnaped her. Then, a few moonslater, she became big with child, although unmarried, whichcaused much gossip. Young and strong, she might still havefound some old man's acceptance as a third or fourth juniorwife. But then the child was born: He was a strange pale tancolor like a cured hide, and had very odd hair--and whereverJankeh Jallon would appear thereafter, people would look atthe ground and hurry elsewhere. Her eyes glistening withtears, she stood up now and asked the Council: What wasshe to do? The elders didn't turn around to confer; the seniorelder said they would have to weigh the matter--which was amost serious and difficult one--until the next moon's Councilmeeting. And with that, he and the five other elders rose andleft. Troubled, and somehow unsatisfied, by the way thesession had ended, Kunta remained seated for a fewmoments after most of his mates and the rest of the audiencehad gotten up--chattering among themselves--and headedback toward their huts. His head was still full of thoughts whenBinta brought his evening meal, and he said not a word to heras he ate, nor she to him. Later, as he picked up his spearand his bow and arrow and ran with his wuolo dog to hissentry post--for this was his night to stand guard outside thevillage--Kunta was still thinking: about the tan baby with thestrange hair, about his no doubt even stranger father, andabout whether (his toubob would have eaten Jankeh Jallon ifshe had not escaped from him.

CHAPTER 32

In the moonlit expanse of ripening fields of ground nuts Kuntaclimbed the notched pole and sat down cross legged on thelookout platform that was built into its sturdy fork, high abovethe ground. Placing his weapons beside him--along with' theax with which he planned the next morning, at last, to chop thewood for his drum frame--he watched as his wuolo dog wenttrotting and sniffing this way and that in the fields below.During Kunta's first few moons on sentry duty, rains ago, heremembered snatching at his spear if so much as a rat wentrustling through the grass. Every shadow seemed a monkey,every monkey a panther, and every panther a toubob, until hiseyes and ears became seasoned to his task. In time, he foundhe could tell the difference between the snarl of a lion and thatof a leopard. It took longer, however, for him to learn how toremain vigilant through these long nights. When his thoughtsbegan to turn inward, as they always did, he often forgotwhere he was and what he was supposed to be doing. Butfinally he learned to keep alert with half of his mind and yet stillexplore his private thoughts with the other. Tonight, he wasthinking about the teriya friendships that had been approvedfor his two friends by the Council of Elders. For severalmoons, they had been telling Kunta and his mates that theywere going to take their case before the Council, but no onehad really believed them. And now it was done. Perhaps atthis very moment, he thought, they might be performing theteriya act in bed with their two widows. Kunta suddenly satupright trying to picture what it must be like. It was chiefly fromhis kafo's gossip that Kunta knew what little he did aboutunder women's clothes. In marriage negotiations, he knew,

girls' fathers had to guarantee them as virgins to get the bestbride price. And a lot of bloodiness was connected withwomen, he knew that. Every moon they had blood; andwhenever they had babies; and the night when they gotmarried. Everyone knew how the next morning, thenewlyweds' two mothers went to the hut to put into a wovenbasket the white pagne cloth the couple had slept on, takingits bloodiness as proof of the girl's virginity to the alimamo,who only then walked around the village drum talking Allah'sblessings on that marriage. If that white cloth wasn't bloodied,Kunta knew, the new husband would angrily leave the hut withthe two mothers as his witnesses and shout loudly, "I divorceyou!" three times for all to hear. But teriya involved none ofthat--only new men sleeping with a willing widow and eatingher cooking. Kunta thought for a little while about how JinnaMTtaki had looked at him, making no secret of her designs,amid the previous day's jostling crowd as the Council sessionended. Almost without realizing, he squeezed his hard foto,but he forced back the strong urge to stroke it because thatwould seem as if, he was giving in to what that widow wanted,which was embarrassing even to think about. He didn't reallywant the stickiness with her, he told himself; but now that hewas a man, he had every right, if he pleased, to think aboutteriya, which the senior elders themselves had shown wasnothing for a man to be ashamed of. Kunta's mind returned tothe memory of some girls he and Lamin had passed in onevillage when returning from their gold-hunting trip. There hadbeen about ten of them, he guessed, all beautifully black, intight dresses, colorful beads, and bracelets, with high breasts

and little hair plaits sticking up. They had acted so strangelyas he went by that it had taken Kunta a moment to realize thatthe show they made of looking away whenever he looked atthem meant that they weren't interested in him but that theywanted lim to be interested in them. Females were soconfusing, he thought. Girls of their ige in Juffure never paidenough attention to him even to look away. Was it becausethey knew what he was really ike? Or was it because theyknew he was far younger than ie looked--too young to beworthy of their interest? Probibiy the girls in that villagebelieved no traveling man lead- ng a boy could have less thantwenty or twenty-five rains, et alone his seventeen. They wouldhave scoffed if they had mown. Yet he was being sought afterby a widow who cnew very well how young he was. Perhapshe was lucky lot to be older, Kunta thought. If he was, the girlsof luffure would be carrying on over him the way the girls of hatvillage had, and he knew they all had just one thing on heirminds: marriage. At least Jinna M'Baki was too old; o belooking for anything more than a teriya friendship. Miy would aman want to marry when he could get a woman to cook forhim and sleep with him without getting named? There must besome reason. Perhaps it was be-; ause it was only throughmarrying that a man could have long. That was a good thing.But what would he have to each those sons until he had livedlong enough to learn omething about the world--not just fromhis father, and Torn the arafang, and from the kin tango butalso by ex- iloring it for himself, as his uncles had done? Hisuncles weren't married even yet, though they were rfder thanhis father, and most men of their rains had aleady taken

second wives by now. Was Omoro considering aking asecond wife? Kunta was so startled at the thought hat he satup straight. And how would his mother feel about it? Well, atleast Binta, as the senior wife, would be able to tell the secondwife her duties, and make certain she worked hard and sether sleeping turns with Omoro. Would there be troublebetween the two women? No, he was sure Binta wouldn't belike the kin tango senior wife, vhom it was commonly knownshouted so much abuse at us junior wives, keeping them insuch a turmoil, that he arely got any peace. Kunta shifted theposition of his legs to let them hang 'or a while over the edgeof his small perch, to keep the nuscles from cramping. Hiswuolo dog was curled on the ground below him, its smoothbrown fur shining in the moonlight, but he knew that the dogonly seemed to be dozing, and that his nose and ears werealertly twitching for the night air's slightest smell or sound ofwarning to bound up racing and barking after the baboons thathad lately been raiding the groundnut fields almost every night.During each long lookout duty, few things pleased Kunta morethan when, maybe a dozen times in the course of a night, hewould be jerked from his thoughts by sudden distant snarlingsas a baboon was sprung upon in the brush by a big cat-especially if the baboon's growling turned into a screamquickly hushed, which meant that it had not escaped. But it allwas quiet now as Kunta sat on the edge of his platform andlooked out across the fields. The only sign of life, in fact,beyond the tall grass, was the bobbing yellow light of a Fulaniherdsman in the distance as he waved his grass torch tofrighten away some animal, probably a hyena, that was

roaming too close to his cows. So good were the Fulani attending cattle that people claimed they could actually talk withtheir animals. And Omoro had told Kunta that each day, aspart of their pay for herding, the Fulani would siphon a littleblood from the cows' necks, which they mixed with milk anddrank. What a strange people, thought Kunta. Yet though theywere not Man- dinka, they were from The Gambia, like him.How much stranger must be the people--and the customs--one would find beyond the borders of his land. Within a moonafter he returned from gold hunting with Lamin, Kunta hadbeen restless to get on the road once again--this time for areal trip. Other young men of his kafo, he knew, were planningto travel somewhere as soon as the ground nuts andcouscous got harvested, but none was going to venture far.Kunta, however, meant to put his eyes and feet upon thatdistant place called Mali, where, some three or four hundredrains before, according to Omoro and his uncles, the Kinteclan had begun. These forefather Kintes, he remembered,had won fame as blacksmiths, men who had conquered fire tomake iron weapons that won wars and iron tools that madefarming less hard. And from this original Kinte family, all oftheir descendants and all of the people who worked for themhad taken the Kinte name. And some of that clan had movedto Mauretania, the birthplace of Kunta's holy-man grandfather.So that no one else, even Omoro, would know about his planuntil he wanted it known, Kunta had consulted in the strictestconfidence with the arafang about the best route to Mali.Drawing a rough map in the dust, then tracing his finger alongit, he had told Kunta that by following the banks of the Kamby

Bolongo about six days in the direction of one's prayers toAllah, a traveler would reach Samo Island. Beyond there, theriver narrowed and curved sharply to the left and began aserpent's twists and turns, with many confusing belongsleading off as wide as the river, whose swampy banks couldn'tbe seen in some areas for the thickness of the mangrovesgrowing sometimes as high as ten men. Where one could seethe riverbanks, the schoolmaster told him, they abounded withmonkeys, hippopotamus, giant crocodiles, and herds of asmany as five hundred baboons. But two to three days of thatdifficult traveling should bring Kunta to a second large island,where the low, muddy banks would rise into small cliffs mattedwith shrubs and small trees. The trail, which twisted alongsidethe river, would take him past villages of Bansang, Karantaba,and Diabugu. Soon afterward he would cross the easternborder of The Gambia and enter the Kingdom of Fulladu, anda half day's walking from there, he would arrive at the village ofFatoto. Out of his bag, Kunta took the scrap of cured hide thearafang had given him. On it was the name of a colleague inFatoto who he said would give Kunta directions for the nexttwelve to fourteen days, which would take him across a landcalled Senegal. Beyond that, said the arafang, lay Mali andKunta's destination, Ka-ba, that land's main place. To go thereand return, the arafang figured, would take about a moon--notcounting whatever time Kunta chose to spend in Mali. Somany times had Kunta drawn and studied the route on hishut's dirt floor--erasing it before Binta brought his meals--thathe could almost see it before him as he sat on his perch in thegroundnut fields. Thinking about the adventures that awaited

him along that trail--and in Mali--he could hardly contain hiseagerness to be off. He was almost as eager to tell Lamin ofhis plans, not only because he wanted to share his secret, butalso because he had decided to take his little brother along.He knew how much Lamin had boasted about that earlier tripwith his brother. Since then, Lamin had also been throughmanhood training and would be a more experienced andtrustworthy traveling companion. But Kunta's deepest reasonfor deciding to take him, he had to admit, was simply that hewanted company. For a moment, Kunta sat in the dark smilingto himself, thinking of Lamin's face when the time would comefor him to know. Kunta planned, of course, to drop the news ina very offhand way" as if he had just happened to think of it.But before then he must speak about it with Omoro, whom heknew now would feel no undue concern. In fact, he was surethat Omoro would be deeply pleased, and that even Binta,though she would worry, would be less upset than before.Kunta wondered what he might bring to Binta from Mali thatshe would treasure even more than her quills of gold. Perhapssome fine molded pots, or a bolt of beautiful cloth; Omoro andhis uncles had said that the ancient Kinte women in Mali hadbeen famed for the pots they made and for the brilliantpatterns of cloth they wove, so maybe the Kinte women therestill did those things. When he returned from Mali, it occurredto Kunta, he might plan still another trip for a later rain. Hemight even journey to that distant place beyond endless sandswhere his uncles had told of the long caravans of strangeanimals with water stored in two humps on their backs. KaliluConteh and Sefo Kela could have their old, ugly teriya

widows; he, Kunta Kinte, would make a pilgrimage to Meccaitself. Happening at that moment to be staring in the directionof that holy city, Kunta became aware of a tiny, steady yellowlight far across the fields. The Fulani herdsman over there, herealized, was cooking his breakfast. Kunta hadn't evennoticed the first faint streaks of dawn in the east. Reachingdown to pick up his weapons and head home, he saw his axand remembered the wood for his drum frame. But he wastired, he thought; maybe he'd chop the wood tomorrow. No, hewas already halfway to the forest, and if he didn't do it now, heknew he would probably let it go until his next sentry duty,which was twelve days later. Besides, it wouldn't be manly togive in to his weariness. Moving his legs to test for anycramps and feeling none, he climbed down the notched poleto the ground, where us wuolo dog waited, making happy littlebarks and waging his tail. After kneeling for his suba prayer,Kunta got ip, stretched, took a deep breath of the coolmorning air, and set off toward the belong at a lope.

CHAPTER 33

The familiar perfumes of wild flowers filled Kunta's nostrils ishe ran, wetting his legs, through grass glistening with lew inthe first rays of sunshine. Hawks circled overhead booking forprey, and the ditches beside the fields were alive with thecroaking of frogs. He veered away from a tree to avoiddisturbing a flock of blackbirds that filled its branches likeshiny black leaves. But he might have saved ilimself thetrouble, for no sooner had he passed by than an ingry, raucous

cawing made him turn his head in time to see hundreds ofcrows bullying the blackbirds from their roost. Breathingdeeply as he ran, but still not out of breath, he began to smellthe musky aroma of the mangroves as he aeared the low,thick underbrush that extended far back from the banks of thebelong. At the first sight of him, a sudden snorting spreadamong the wild pigs, which in turn set off a barking andsnarling among the baboons, whose aig males quicklypushed their females and babies behind 'hem. When he wasyounger, he would have stopped to mitate them, grunting andjumping up and down, since this lever failed to annoy thebaboons, who would always shake heir fists and sometimesthrow rocks. But he was no longer i boy, and he had learned totreat all of Allah's creatures is he himself wished to be treated:with respect. Fluttering white way--of egrets, cranes, storks,and pelicans rose from th'ir sleeping places as he picked hisway through the tangled mangrove down to the belong. Junta'swuolo dog raced ahead chasing water snakes and big brownturtles down their mud slides into the water, where they left noteven a ripple. As he always did whenever he felt some needto come here after a night's lookout duty, Kunta stood awhileat the edge of the belong, today watching a gray heron trailingits long, thin legs as it flew at about a spear's height above thepale green water, rippling the surface with each downbeat ofits wings. Though the heron was looking for smaller game, heknew that this was the best spot along the belong for kujalo, abig, powerful fish that Kunta loved to catch for Binta, whowould stew it for him with onions, rice, and bitter tomatoes.With his stomach already rumbling for breakfast, it made him

hungry just to think of it. A little farther downstream, Kuntaturned away from the water's edge along a path he himselfhad made to an ancient mangrove tree that he thought mustknow him, after countless visits, as well as he knew it. Pullinghimself up onto the lowest branch, he climbed all the way tohis favorite perch near the top. From here, in the clearmorning, with the sun warm on his back, he could see all theway to the next bend in the belong, still carpeted with sleepingwaterfowl, and beyond them to the women's rice plots, dottedwith their bamboo shelters for nursing babies. In which one ofthem, he wondered, had his mother put him when he waslittle? This place in the early morning would always fill Kuntawith a greater sense of calm, and wonder, than anywhere elsehe knew of. Even more than in the village mosque, he felt herehow totally were everyone and everything in the hands of Allah;and how everything he could see and hear and smell from thetop of this tree had been here for longer than men'smemories, and would be here long after he and his sons andhis sons' sons had joined their ancestors. Trotting away fromthe belong toward the sun for a little while, Kunta finallyreached the head-high grass surrounding the grove where hewas going to pick out and chop a section of tree trunk just theright size for the body of his drum. If the green wood starteddrying and curing today, he figured it would be ready to hollowout and work on in a moon and a half, about the time he andLamin would be returning from their trip to Mali. As he steppedinto the grove, Kunta saw a sudden movement out of thecorner of his eye. It was a hare, and the wuolo dog was after itin a flash as it raced for cover in the tall grass. He was

obviously chasing it for sport rather than for food, since hewas barking furiously; Kunta knew that a hunting wuolo nevermade noise if he was really hungry. The two of them weresoon out of earshot, but Kunta knew that his dog would comeback when he lost interest in the chase. Kunta headed forwardto the center of the grove, where he would find more treesfrom which to choose a trunk of the size, smoothness, androundness that he wanted. The soft, mossy earth felt goodunder his feet as he walked deeper into the dark grove, butthe air here was damp and cold, he noticed, the sun not beinghigh enough or hot enough yet to penetrate the thick foliageoverhead. Leaning his weapons and ax against a warpedtree, he wandered here and there, occasionally stooping, hiseyes and fingers examining for just the right trunk, one just alittle bit larger--to allow for drying shrinkage--than he wantedhis drum to be. He was bending over a likely prospect whenhe heard the sharp crack of a twig, followed quickly by thesquawk of a parrot overhead. It was probably the dogreturning, he thought in the back of his mind. But no grown dogever cracked a twig, he flashed, whirling in the same instant. Ina blur, rushing at him, he saw a white face, a club upraised;heard heavy footfalls behind him. Toubob! His foot lashed upand caught the man in the belly--it was soft and he heard agrunt--just as something hard and heavy grazed the back ofKunta's head and landed like a tree trunk on his shoulder.Sagging under the pain, Kunta spun--turning his back on theman who lay doubled over on the ground at his feet--andpounded with his fists on the faces of two black men who werelunging at him with a big sack, and at another toubob swinging

a short, thick club, which missed him this time as he sprangaside. His brain screaming for any weapon, Kunta leaped intothem--clawing, butting, kneeing, gouging--hardly feeling theclub that was pounding against his back. As three of themwent down with him, sinking to the ground under theircombined weight, a knee smashed into Kunta's lower back,rocking him with such pain that he gasped. His open mouthmeeting flesh, his teeth clamped, cut, tore. His numb fingersfinding a face, he clawed deeply into an eye, hearing its ownerhowl as again the heavy club met Kunta's head. Dazed, heheard a dog's snarling, a toubob screaming, then a suddenpiteous yelp. Scrambling to his feet, wildly twisting, dodging,ducking to escape more clubbing, with blood streaming fromhis split head, he saw one black cupping his eye, one of thetoubob holding a bloody arm, standing over the body of thedog, and the remaining pair circling him with raised clubs.Screaming his rage, Kunta went -for the second toubob, hisfists meeting and breaking the force of the descending club.Almost choking with the awful toubob stink, he trieddesperately to wrench away the club. Why had he not heardthem, sensed them, smelted them? Just then the black's clubsmashed into Kunta once again, staggering him to his knees,and the toubob sprang loose. His head ready to explode, hisbody reeling, raging at his own weakness, Kunta reared upand roared, nailing blindly at the air, everything blurred withtears and blood and sweat. He was fighting for more than hislife now. Omoro! Binta! Lamin! Suwadu! Madi! The toubob'sheavy club crashed against his temple. And all went black.

CHAPTER 34

Kunta wondered if he had gone mad. Naked, chained,shackled, he awoke on his back between two other men in apitch darkness full of steamy heat and sickening stink and anightmarish bedlam of shrieking, weeping, praying, andvomiting. He could feel and smell his own vomit on his chestand belly. His whole body was one spasm of pain from theheatings he had received in the four days since his capture.But the place where the hot iron had been put between hisshoulders hurt the worst. A rat's thick, furry body brushed hischeek, its whiskered nose sniffing at his mouth. Quivering withrevulsion, Kunta snapped his teeth together desperately, andthe rat ran away. In rage, Kunta snatched and kicked againstthe shackles that bound his wrists and ankles. Instantly, angryexclamations and jerking came back from whomever he wasshackled to. The shock and pain adding to his fury, Kuntalunged upward, his head bumping hard against wood--right onthe spot where he had been clubbed by the tou- bob back inthe woods. Gasping and snarling, he and the unseen man nextto him battered their iron cuffs at each other until both slumpedback in exhaustion. Kunta felt himself starting to vomit again,and he tried to force it back, but couldn't. His already emptiedbelly squeezed up a thin, sour fluid that drained from the sideof his mouth as he lay wishing that he might die. He toldhimself that he mustn't lose control again if he wanted to savehis strength and his sanity. After a while, when he felt he couldmove again, he very slowly and carefully explored hisshackled right wrist and ankle with his left hand. They were

bleeding. He pulled lightly on the chain; it seemed to beconnected to the left ankle and wrist of the man he had foughtwith. On Kunta's left, chained to him by the ankles, lay someother man, someone who kept up a steady moaning, and theywere all so close that their shoulders, arms, and legs touchedif any of them moved even a little. Remembering the wood hehad bumped into with his head, Kunta drew himself upwardagain, just enough for it to bump gently; there wasn't enoughspace even to sit up. And behind his head was a wooden wall.I'm trapped like a leopard in a snare, he thought. Then heremembered sitting in the darkness of the manhood-traininghut after being taken blindfolded to the jujuo so many rainsbefore, and a sob welled up in his throat; but he fought it back.Kunta made himself think about the cries and groans he washearing all around him. There must be many men here in theblackness, some close, some farther away, some beside him,others in front of him, but all in one room, if that's what thiswas. Straining his. ears, he could hear still more cries, butthey were muffled and came from below, beneath the splinteryplanking he lay on. Listening more intently, he began torecognize the different tongues of those around him. Over andover, in Arabic, a Fulani was shouting, "Allah in heaven, helpme!" And a man of the Serere tribe was hoarsely wailing whatmust have been the names of his family. But mostly Kuntaheard Mandinkas, the loudest of them babbling wildly in thesira kango secret talk of men, vowing terrible deaths to all tou-bob. The cries of the others were so slurred with weeping thatKunta could identify neither their words nor their languages,although he knew that some of the strange talk he heard must

come from beyond The Gambia. As Kunta lay listening, heslowly began to realize that he was trying to push from hismind the impulse to relieve the demands of his bowels, whichhe had been forcing back for days. But he could hold it in nolonger, and finally the feces curled out between his buttocks.Revolted at himself, smelling his own addition to the stench,Kunta began sobbing, and again his belly spasmed,producing this time only a little spittle; but he kept gagging.What sins was he being punished for in such a manner asthis? He pleaded to Allah for an answer. It was sin enough thathe hadn't prayed once since the morning he went for the woodto make his drum. Though he couldn't get onto his knees, andhe knew not even which way was east, he closed his eyeswhere he lay and prayed, beseeching Allah's forgiveness.Afterward, Kunta lay for a long time bathing dully in his pains,and slowly became aware that one of them, in his knottedstomach, was nothing more than hunger. It occurred to himthat he hadn't eaten anything since the night before hiscapture. He was trying to remember if he had slept in all thattime, when suddenly he saw himself walking along a trail in theforest; behind him walked two blacks, ahead of him a pair oftoubob with their strange clothes and their long hair in strangecolors. Kunta jerked his eyes open and shook his head; hewas soaked in sweat and his heart was pounding. He hadbeen asleep without knowing. It had been a nightmare; or wasthe nightmare this stinking blackness? No, it was as real asthe scene in the forest in his dream had been. Against his will,it all came back to him. After fighting the black slatees and thetoubob so desperately in the grove of trees, he remembered

awakening--into a wave of blinding pain--and finding himselfgagged, blindfolded, and bound with his wrists behind himand his ankles hobbled with knotted rope. Thrashing to breakfree, he was jabbed savagely with sharp sticks until blood randown his legs. Yanked onto his feet and prodded with thesticks to begin moving, he stumbled ahead of them as fast ashis hobbles would permit. Somewhere along the banks of thebelong--Kunta could tell by the sounds, and the feel of the softground beneath his feet--he was shoved down into a canoe.Still blindfolded, he heard the slatees grunting, rowing swiftly,with the toubob hitting him whenever he struggled. Landing,again they walked, until finally that night they reached a placewhere they threw Kunta on the ground, tied him with his backto a bamboo fence and, without warning, pulled off hisblindfold. It was dark, but he could see the pale face of thetoubob standing over him, and the silhouettes of others likehim on the ground nearby. The toubob held out some meat forhim to bite off a piece. He turned his head aside and clampedhis jaws. Hissing with rage, the toubob grabbed him by thethroat and tried to force his mouth open. When Kunta kept itshut tight, the toubob drew back his fist and punched him hardin the face. Kunta was let alone the rest of the night. At dawn,he began to make out--tied to other bamboo trunks--thefigures of the other captured people, eleven of them--six men,three girls, and two children--all guarded closely by armedslatees and toubob. The girls were naked; Kunta could onlyavert his eyes; he never had seen a woman naked before.The men, also naked, sat with murderous hatred etched intheir faces, grimly silent and crusted with blood from whip

cuts. But the girls were crying out, one about dead loved onesin a burned village; another, bitterly weeping, rocked back andforth cooing endearments to an imaginary infant in her cradledarms; and the third shrieked at intervals that she was going toAllah. In wild fury, Kunta lunged back and forth trying to breakhis bonds. A heavy blow with a club again knocked himsenseless. When he came to, he found that he too was naked,that all of their heads had been shaved and their bodiessmeared with red palm oil. At around noonday, two newtoubob entered the grove. The slatees, now all grins, quicklyuntied the captives from the bamboo trunks, shouting to themto stand in a line. Kunta's muscles were knotted with rage andfear. One of the new toubob was short and stout and his hairwas white. The other towered over him, tall and huge andscowling, with deep knife scars across his face, but it was thewhite-haired one before whom the slatees and the othertoubob grinned and all but bowed. Looking at them all, thewhite-haired one gestured for Kunta to step forward, andlurching backward in terror, Kunta screamed as a whip searedacross his back. A slatee from behind grappled himdownward to his knees, jerking his head backward. The white-haired toubob calmly spread Kunta's trembling lips andstudied his teeth. Kunta attempted to spring up, but afteranother blow of the whip, he stood as ordered, his bodyquivering as the toubob's fingers explored his eyes, his chest,his belly. When the fingers grasped his foto, he lunged asidewith a choked cry. Two slatees and more lashings wereneeded to force Kunta to bend over almost double, and inhorror he felt his buttocks being spread wide apart. Then the

white-haired toubob roughly shoved Kunta aside and, one byone, he similarly inspected the others, even the private partsof the wailing girls. Then whips and shouted commands sentthe captives all dashing around within the enclosure, and nextspringing up and down on their haunches. After observingthem, the white-haired toubob and the huge one with the knife-scarred face stepped a little distance away and spoke brieflyin low tones. Stepping back, the white-haired one, beckoninganother toubob, jabbed his finger at four men, one of themKunta, and two of the girls. The toubob looked shocked,pointing at the others in a beseeching manner. But the white-haired one shook his head firmly. Kunta sat straining againsthis bonds, his head threatening to burst with rage, as thetoubob argued heatedly. After a while, the white-haired onedisgustedly wrote something on a piece of paper that theother toubob angrily accepted. Kunta struggled and howledwith fury as the slatees grabbed him again, wrestling him to aseated position with his back arched. Eyes wide with terror,he watched as a toubob withdrew from the fire a long, thin ironthat the white-haired one had brought with him. Kunta wasalready thrashing and screaming as the iron exploded painbetween his shoulders. The bamboo grove echoed with thescreams of the others, one by one. Then red palm oil wasrubbed over the peculiar LL shape Kunta saw on their backs.Within the hour, they were hobbling in a line of clanking chains,with the slatees' ready whips flailing down on anyone whobalked or stumbled. Kunta's back and shoulders wereribboned with bleeding cuts when late that night they reachedtwo canoes hidden under thick, overhanging mangroves at the

river's banks. Split into two groups, they were rowed throughdarkness by the slatees, with the toubob lashing out at anysign of struggle. When Kunta saw a vast dark shape loomingup ahead in the night, he sensed that this was his last chance.Springing and lunging amid shouts and screams around him,he almost upset the canoe in his struggle to leap overboard;but he was bound to the others and couldn't make it over theside. He almost didn't feel the blows of the whips and clubsagainst his ribs, his back, his face, his belly, his head--as thecanoe bumped against the side of the great dark thing.Through the pain, he could feel the warm blood pouring downhis face, and he heard above him the exclamations of manytoubob. Then ropes were being looped around him, and hewas helpless to resist. After being half pushed and half pulledup some strange rope ladder, he had enough strength left totwist his body wildly in another break for freedom; again hewas lashed with whips, and hands were grabbing him amid anoverwhelming toubob smell and the sound' of womenshrieking and loud toubob cursing. Through swollen lids,Kunta saw a thicket of legs and feet all around him, andmanaging an upward glance while trying to shield his bleedingface with his forearm, he saw the short toubob with the whitehair standing calmly making marks in a small book with astubby pencil. Then he felt himself being snatched upright andshoved roughly across a flat space. He caught a glimpse oftall poles with thick wrappings of coarse white cloth. Then hewas being guided, stumbling weakly down some kind ofnarrow steps, into a place of pitch blackness; at the sameinstant, his nose was assaulted by an unbelievable stink, and

his ears by cries of anguish. Kunta began vomiting as thetoubob--holding dim yellowish flames that burned within metalframes carried by a ring--shackled his wrists and ankles, thenshoved him backward, close between two other moaningmen. Even in his terror, he sensed that lights bobbing in otherdirections meant that the toubob were taking those who hadcome with him to be shackled elsewhere. Then he felt histhoughts slipping; he thought he must be dreaming. And then,mercifully, he was.

CHAPTER 35

Only the rasping sound of the deck hatch being opened toldKunta if it was day or night. Hearing the latch click, he wouldjerk his head up--the only free movement that his chains andshackles would allow--and four shadowy toubob figures woulddescend, two of them with bobbing lights and whips guardingthe other pair as they all moved along the narrow aisle wayspushing a tub of food. They would thrust tin pans of the stuff uponto the filth between each two shackle mates So far, eachtime the food had come, Kunta had clamped his jaws shut,preferring to starve to death, until the aching of his emptystomach had begun to make his hunger almost as terrible asthe pains from his heatings. When those on Kunta's level hadbeen fed, the lights showed the toubob descending fartherbelow with the rest of the food. Less often than the feedingtimes, and usually when it was night outside, the toubob wouldbring down into the hold some new captives, screaming andwhimpering in terror as they were shoved and lashed along to

wherever they were to be chained into empty spaces alongthe rows of hard plank shelves. One day, shortly after afeeding time, - Kunta's ears picked up a strange, mutedsound that seemed to vibrate through the ceiling over hishead. Some of the other men heard it too, and their moaningended abruptly. Kunta lay listening intently; it sounded as ifmany feet were dashing about overhead. Then--much nearerto them in the darkness--came a new sound, as of some veryheavy object being creaked very slowly upward. Kunta'snaked back felt an odd vibration from the hard, enoughplanking he lay on. He felt a tightening, a swelling yithin hischest, and he lay frozen. About him he heard: hudding soundsthat he knew were men lunging upward, straining against theirchains. It felt as if all of his blood lad rushed into his poundinghead. And then terror went; lawing into his vitals as he sensedin some way that this place was moving, taking them away.Men started shouting ill around him, screaming to Allah andHis spirits, banging their heads against the planking,thrashing wildly against their rattling shackles. "Allah, I willnever pray to you less than five times daily!" Kunta shriekedinto the bedlam, "Hear me! Help me!" The anguished cries,weeping, and prayers continued, subsiding only as one afteranother exhausted man went limp and lay gasping for breathin the stinking blackness. Kunta knew that he would never seeAfrica again. He;ould feel clearly now, through his bodyagainst the planks, 3. slow, rocking motion, sometimesenough that his shouliers or arms or hips would press againstthe brief warmth 3f one of the men he was chained between.He had shouted so hard that he had no voice left, so his mind

screamed it instead: "Kill toubob--and their traitor blackhelpers!" He was sobbing quietly when the hatch opened andthe four toubob came bumping down with their tub of food.Again he clamped his jaws against his spasms of hunger, butthen he thought of something the kin tango had once said--thatwarriors and hunters must eat well to have greater strengththan other men. Starving himself meant that weakness wouldprevent him from killing toubob. So this time, when the panwas thrust onto the boards between him and the man next tohim, Kunta's fingers also clawed into the thick mush. It tastedlike ground maize botled'-with palm oil. Each gulping swallowpained his throat in the spot where he had been choked fornot eating before, but he swallowed until the pan was empty.He could feel the food like a lump in his belly, and soon it wasrising up his throat. He couldn't stop it, and a moment later thegruel was back on the planking. He could hear, over the soundof his own retching, that of others doing the same thing. As thelights approached the end of the long shelf of planks on whichKunta lay, suddenly he heard chains rattling, a head bumping,and then a man screaming hysteri cally in a curious mixture ofMandinka and what sounded like some toubob words. Anuproarious burst of laughter came from the toubob with thefeeding tub, then their whips lashing down, until the man'scries lapsed into babbling and whimpering. Could it be? Hadhe heard an Afri- can speaking toubob? Was there a slateedown there among them? Kunta had heard that toubob wouldoften betray their black traitor helpers and throw them intochains. After the toubob had gone on down to the level below,scarcely a sound was heard on Kunta's level until they

reappeared with their emptied tub and climbed back upoutside, closing the hatch behind them. At that instant, anangry buzzing began in different tongues, like bees swarming.Then, down the shelf from where Kunta lay, there was a heavychain-rattling blow, a howl of pain and bkter cursing in thesame hysterical Mandinka. K-until heard the man shriek, "Youthink I am toubob?" There were more violent, rapid blows anddesperate screams. Then the blows stopped, and in theblackness of the hold came a high squealing--and then anawful gurgling sound, as of a man whose breath was beingchoked off. Another rattling of chains, a tattoo of bare heelskicking at the planks, then quiet. Kunta's head was throbbing,and his heart was pounding, as voices around him beganscreaming, "Slatee! Slatees die!" Then Kunta was screamingalong with them and joining in a wild rattling of chains--whensuddenly with a rasping sound the hatch was opened,admitting its shaft of daylight and a group of toubob with lightsand whips. They had obviously heard the commotion belowthem, and though now almost total silence had fallen in thehold, the toubob rushed among the aisles shouting andlashing left and right with their whips. When they left withoutfinding the dead man, the hold remained silent for a longmoment. Then, very quietly, Kunta heard a mirthless laughfrom the end of the shelf next to where the traitor lay dead. Thenext feeding was a tense one. As if the toubob sensedsomething amiss, their whips fell even more often than usual.Kunta jerked and cried out as a bolt of pain cut across hislegs. He had learned that when anyone didn't cry out from ablow, he would get a severe beating until he did. Then he

clawed and gulped down the tasteless mush as his eyesfollowed the lights moving on down along the shelf. Every manin the hold was listening when one of the toubob exclaimedsomething to the others. A jostling of lights could be seen, thenmore exclamations and cursings, and then one of the toubobrushed down the aisle and up through the hatch, and he soonreturned with two more. Kunta could hear the iron cuffs andchains being unlocked. Two of the toubob then half carried,half dragged the body of the dead man along the aisle and upthe hatch, while the others continued bumping their food tubalong the aisles. The food team was on the level below whenfour more toubob climbed down through the hatch and wentdirectly to where the slatee had been chained. By twisting hishead, Kunta could see the lights raised high. With violentcursing, two of the toubob sent their whips whistling downagainst flesh. Whoever was being beaten refused at first toscream; though just listening to the force of the blows wasalmost paralyzing to Kunta, he could hear the beaten manflailing against his chains in the agony of his torture--and of hisgrim determination not to cry out. Then the toubob werealmost shrieking their curses, and the lights could be seenchanging hands as one man spelled the other with the lash.Finally the beaten man began screaming--first a Foulah curse,then things that could not be understood, though they too werein the Foulah tongue. Kunta's mind flashed a thought of thequiet, gentle Foulah tribe who tended Mandinka cattle--as thelashing sounds continued until the beaten man barelywhimpered. Then the four toubob left, cursing, gasping, andgagging in the stink. The moans of the Foulah shivered

through the black hold. Then, after a while, a clear voice calledout in Man- dinka, "Share his pain! We must be in this placeas one village!" The voice belonged to an elder. He was right.The Foulah's pains had been as Kunta's own. He felt himselfabout to burst with rage. He also felt, in some nameless way,a terror greater than he had ever known before, and it seemedto spread from the marrow of his bones. Part of him wanted todie, to escape all of this; but no, he must live to avenge it. Heforced himself to lie absolutely still. It took a long while, butfinally he felt his strain and confusion, even his body's pains,begin to ebb--except for the place between his shoulderswhere he had been burned with the hot iron. He found that hismind could focus better now on the only choice that seemed tolie before him and the others: Either they would all die in thisnightmare place, or somehow the toubob would have to beovercome and killed.

CHAPTER 36

The stinging bites, then the itching of the body lice, steadilygrew worse. In the filth, the lice as well as the fleas hadmultiplied by the thousands until they swarmed all over thehold. They were worst wherever the body crevices held anyhair. Kunta's armpits, and around his foto, felt as if they wereon fire, and his free hand scratched steadily wherever hisshackled hand couldn't reach. He kept having thoughts ofspringing up and running away; then, a moment later, his eyeswould fill with tears of frustration, anger would rise in him, andhe would fight it all back down until he felt again some kind of

calm. The worst thing was that he couldn't move anywhere; hefelt he wanted to bite through his chains. He decided that hemust keep himself focused upon something, anything tooccupy his mind or his hands, or else he would go mad--assome men in the hold seemed to have done already, judgingfrom the things they cried out. By lying very still and listening tothe breathing sounds of the men on either side of him, Kuntahad long since learned to tell when either of them was asleepor awake. He concentrated now upon hearing farther awayfrom him. With more and more practice at listening intently torepeated sounds, he discovered that his ears after a whilecould discern their location almost exactly; it was a peculiarsensation, almost as if his ears were serving for eyes. Nowand then, among the groans and curses that filled thedarkness, he heard the thump of a man's head against theplanks he lay on. And there was another odd and monotonousnoise. It would stop at intervals, then resume after a while; itsounded as if two pieces of metal were being rubbed hardtogether, and after hearing more of it Kunta figured thatsomeone was trying to wear the links of his; ha ins apart.Kunta often heard, too, brief exclamations and janglings ofchains as two men furiously fought, jerking their shacklesagainst each other's ankles and wrists. Kunta had lost track oftime. The urine, vomit, and feces that reeked everywherearound him had spread into a slick paste covering the hardplanking of the long shelves on which they lay. Just when hehad begun to think he souldn't stand it any more, eight toubobcame down the hatchway, cursing loudly. Instead of the routinefood container, they carried what seemed to be some kind of

long- handled hoes and four large tubs. And Kunta noticedwith astonishment that they were not wearing any clothes atall. The naked toubob almost immediately began vomitingworse than any of the others who had come before. In the glowof their lights, they all but sprang along the aisles in teams oftwo, swiftly thrusting their hoes up onto the shelves andscraping some of the mess into their tubs. As; ach tub wasfilled, the toubob would drag it back along the aisle and gobumping it up the steps through the opened hatchway toempty it outside, and then they would return. The toubob weregagging horribly by now, their faces contorted grotesquely,and their hairy, colorless bodies covered with blobs of themess they were scraping off the shelves. But when theyfinished their job and were gone, there was no difference inthe hot, awful, choking stench of the hold. The next time thatmore than the usual four toubob descended with their foodtubs, Kunta guessed that there must be as many as twenty ofthem clumping down the hatch steps. He lay frozen. Turninghis head this way and that, he could see small groups oftoubob posting themselves around the hold, some carryingwhips and guns, guarding others with lights upraised at theends of each shelf of chained men. A knot of fear grew inKunta's belly as he began hearing strange clicking sounds,then heavy rattlings. Then his shackled right ankle beganjerking; with Bashing terror he realized that the toubob werereleasing him. Why? What terrible thing was going to happennow? He lay still, his right ankle no longer feeling the familiarweight of the chain, hearing all around the hold more clickingsounds and the rattling of chains being pulled. Then the

toubob started shouting and lashing with their whips. Kuntaknew that it meant for them to get down off their shelves. Hiscry of alarm joined a sudden bedlam of shrieks in differenttongues as the men reared their bodies upward, headsthudding against the ceiling timbers. The whips lashed downamid screams of pain as one after another pair of men wentthumping down into the aisle ways Kunta and his Wolofshackle mate hugged each other on the shelf as the searingblows jerked them convulsively back and forth. Then handsclamped roughly around their ankles and hauled them acrossthe shelf s mushy filth and into the tangle of other men in theaisle- way, all of them howling under the toubob whips.Wrenching and twisting in vain to escape the pain, heglimpsed shapes moving against the light of the openedhatchway. The toubob were snatching men onto their feet--onepair after another--then beating and shoving them along,stumbling in the darkness, toward the hatchway's steps.Kunta's legs felt separated from the rest of his body as hewent lurching alongside the Wolof, shackled by their wrists,naked, crusted with filth, begging not to be eaten. The firstopen daylight in nearly fifteen days hit Kunta with the force of ahammer between his eyes. He reeled under the bursting pain,flinging his free hand up to cover his eyes. His bare feet toldhim that whatever they were walking on was moving slightlyfrom side to side. Fumbling blindly ahead, with even hiscupped hand and clamped eyelids admitting some tormentinglight, trying futilely to breathe through nostrils nearly pluggedwith snot, he gaped open his cracked lips and took a deepbreath of sea air--the first of his life. His lungs convulsed from

its rich cleanness, and he crumpled to the deck, vomitingalongside his shackle mate All about him he heard morevomiting, chains clanking, lashes meeting flesh, and shrieks ofpain amid toubob shouts and curses and strange flappingsounds over bead When another whip ripped across his back,Kunta shrank to one side, hearing his Wolof partner gasp asthe lash hit him. It kept tearing at them both until somehow theystumbled to their feet He slit his eyes to see if he couldescape some of the blows; but new pains stabbed into hishead as their tormentor shoved them toward where Kuntacould see the blurred forms of other toubob passing a lengthof chain through the shackles around each man's ankles.There had been more of them down there in the darkness thanhe had ever realized--and far more toubob than had ever gonebelow. In the bright sunlight, they looked even paler and morehorrible, their faces pitted with the holes of disease, theirpeculiar long hair in colors of yellow or black or red, some ofthem even with hair around their mouths and under their chins.Some were bony, others fat, some had ugly scars from knives,or a hand, eye, or limb missing, and the backs of many werecrisscrossed with deep scars. It flashed through Kunta's mindhow his teeth had been counted and inspected, for several ofthese tou- bob he saw had but few teeth. Many of them werespaced along the rails, holding whips, long knives, or somekind of heavy metal stick with a hole in the end, and Kuntacould see beyond them an amazing sight--an unbelievableendlessness of rolling blue water. He jerked his head upwardtoward the slapping sounds above and saw that they camefrom giant white sloths billowing among huge poles and many

ropes. The sloths seemed to be filled up with the wind. Turningabout, Kunta saw that a high barricade of bamboo taller thanany man extended completely across the width of the huge;anoe. Showing through the barricade's center was the gapingblack mouth of a huge, terrible-looking metal thing with i long,thick, hollow shaft, and the tips of more metal sticks like theones the toubob had been holding at the rail. Both the hugething and the sticks were pointed toward where he and theother naked men were grouped. As their ankle shackles werebeing linked onto the new; hain, Kunta got the chance to takea good look at his Wolof shackle mate for the first time. Likehimself, the man was crusted from head to foot with filth. Heseemed about the rains of Kunta's father Omoro, and theWolof had that ribe's classic facial features, and he was veryblack of; olor. The Wolof's back was bleeding from where thewhip- aings had cut into him, and pus was oozing from wherean LL mark had been burned into his back. Kunta realized, istheir eyes searched each other, that the Wolof was star- ng athim with the same astonishment. Amid the commoJon, theyhad time to stare also at the other naked men, nost of themgibbering in their terror. From the different 'acial features,tribal tattoos, and scarification marks, Kunta could tell thatsome were Foulah, Jola, Serere, and Wolof, like his partner,but most were Mandinkas--and there were some he could notbe sure of. With excitement, Kunta saw the one he was suremust have killed the slatee. He was indeed a Foulah; bloodfrom the beating he had received was crusted all over him.They were all soon being shoved and whipped toward whereanother chain of ten men was being doused with buckets of

seawater drawn up from over the side. Then other toubob withlong-handled brushes were scrubbing the screaming men.Kunta screamed, too, as the drenching salt water hit him,stinging like fire in his own bleeding whip cuts and the burnedplace on his back. He cried even louder as the stiff brushbristles not only loosened and scraped off some of his body'scrusted filth but also tore open his scabbed lash cuts. He sawthe water frothing and pinkish at their feet. Then they wereherded back toward the center of the deck, where theyflopped down in a huddle. Kunta gawked upward to seetoubob springing about on the poles like monkeys, pulling atthe many ropes among the great white cloths. Even in Kunta'sshock, the heat of the sun felt warm and good, and he felt anincredible sense of relief that his skin was freed of some of itsfilth. A sudden chorus of cries brought the chained men jerkingupright. About twenty women, most of them teenaged, andfour children, came running naked and without chains frombehind the barricade, ahead of two grinning toubob withwhips. Kunta instantly recognized the girls who had beenbrought on board with him--as with flooding rage he watchedall of the toubob leering at thair nakedness, some of themeven rubbing their fotos. By sheer force of will, he fought theurge to go lunging after the nearest toubob despite theirweapons. Hands clutched into fists, he sucked hard for air tokeep breathing, wrenching his eyes away from the terrifiedwomen. Then a toubob near the rail began pulling out andpushing in between his hands some peculiar folding thing thatmade a wheezing sound. Another joined in, beating on a drumfrom Africa, as other toubob now moved themselves into a

ragged line with the naked men, women, and children staringat them. The toubob in the line had a length of rope, and eachof them looped one ankle within it, as if that rope was a lengthof chain such as linked the naked men. Smiling now, theybegan jumping up and down to- ether in short hops, keepingin time with the drumbeats ad the wheezing thing. Then theyand the other armed toubob gestured for the men in chains tojump in the same manner. But when the chained mencontinued to stand as if petrified, the toubobs' grins becamescowls, and they began laying about with whips. "Jump!"shouted the oldest woman suddenly, in Man- dinka. She wasof about the rains of Kunta's mother Binta. Bounding out, shebegan jumping herself. "Jump!" she; ried shrilly again, glaringat the girls and children, and bey jumped as she did. "Jump tokill toubob!" she shrieked, aer quick eyes flashing at thenaked men, her arms and hands darting in the movements ofthe warrior's dance. And then, as her meaning sank home,one after another shackled pair of men began a weak,stumbling hopping up and down, their chains clanking againstthe deck. With his head down, Kunta saw the welter ofhopping feet and legs, Feeling his own legs rubbery under himas his breath came in gasps. Then the singing of the womanwas joined by the girls. It was a happy sound, but the wordsthey sang told how these horrible toubob had taken everywoman into the dark corners of the canoe each night andused them like dogs. "Toubob fa!" (Kill toubob they shriekedwith smiles and laughter. The naked, jumping men joined in:"Toubob fa!" Even the toubob were grinning now, some ofthem slapping their hands with pleasure. But Kunta's knees

beganoto buckle beneath him and his throat went tight whenhe saw, approaching him, the short, stocky toubob with whitehair, and with him the huge, cowling one with the knife-scarredface who also had aeen at that place where Kunta wasexamined and beaten and choked and burned before he wasbrought here. In an instant, as the other naked people sawthese two, a sudden silence fell, and the only sound to beheard was that of great, slapping cloths overhead, for even therest of the toubob had stiffened at their presence. Barking outsomething hoarsely, the huge one cleared the other toubobaway from the chained people. From his belt there dangled alarge ring of the slender, shiny things that Kunta had glimpsedothers using as they had opened he chains. And then thewhite-haired one went moving imong the naked people,peering closely at their bodies. Wherever he saw whip cutsbadly festered, or pus draining from rat bites or burnedplaces, he smeared on some grease from a can that the hugeone handed to him. Or the huge one himself would sprinkle ayellowish powder from a container on wrists and ankles thatbecame a sickly, moist, grayish color beneath the iron cuffs.As the two toubob moved nearer to him, Kunta shrank in fearand fury, but then the white-haired one was smearing greaseon his festering places and the huge one was sprinkling hisankles and wrists with the yellowish powder, neither of themseeming even to recognize who Kunta was. Then, suddenly,amid rising shouts among the toubob, one of the girls who hadbeen brought with Kunta was springing wildly between franticguards. As several of them went clutching and diving for her,she hurled herself screaming over me rail and went plunging

downward. In the great shouting commotion, the white-hairedtoubob and the huge one snatched up whips and with bittercurses lashed the backs of those who had gone sprawlingafter," letting her slip from their grasp. Then the toubob upamong the cloths were yelling and pointing toward the water.Turning in that direction, the naked people saw the girlbobbing in the waves--and not far away, a pair of dark finscoursing swiftly toward her. Then came another scream--ablood-chilling one--then a frothing and thrashing, and she wasdragged from sight, leaving behind only a redness in theWater where she had been. For the first time, no whips fell asthe chained people, sick with horror, were herded back intothe dark hold and rechained into their places. Kunta's headwas reeling. After the fresh air of the ocean, the stenchsmelled even worse than before, and after the daylight, thehold seemed even darker. When soon a new disturbancearose, seeming somewhat distant, his practiced ears told himthat the tou- bob were driving up onto the deck the terrifiedmen from the level below. After a while, he heard near his rightear a low mutter. "Jula?" Kunta's heart leaped. He knew verylittle of the Wolof tongue, but he did know that Wolof and someothers used the word juta to mean travelers and traders whowere usually Mandinkas. And twisting his head a bit closer tothe Wolofs ear, Kunta whispered, "Jula. Mandinka. " Formoments, as he lay tensely, the Wolof made no return sound. Itwent flashing through Kunta's head that if he; ould only speakmany languages, as his father's brothers "id--but he wasashamed to have brought them to this ilace, even in histhoughts. "Wolof. Jebou Manga," the other man whispered

finally, and Kunta knew that was his name. "Kunta Kinte," hewhispered back. Exchanging a whisper now and then in theirdesperation to communicate, they picked at each other'sminds to learn a new word here, another there, in theirrespective tongues. It was much as they had learned theirearly words as first- kafo children. During one of the intervalsof silence between them, Kunta remembered how when hehad been a lookout against the baboons in the groundnutfields at night, the distant fire of a Fulani herdsman had givenhim a sense of comfort and he had wished that there hadbeen some way he could exchange words with this man hehad never seen. It was as if that wish were being realized now,except that it was with a Wolof, unseen for the weeks they hadbeen lying there shackled to each other. Every Wolofexpression Kunta had ever heard he now dragged from hismemory. He knew that the Wolof was doing the same withMandinka words, of which he knew more than Kunta knew ofWolof words. In another time of silence between them, Kuntasensed that the man who lay on his other side, who never hadmade any sound other than moaning in pain, was listeningclosely to them. Kunta realized from the low murmuring thatspread gradually throughout the hold that once the men hadactually been able to see each other up in the daylight, he andhis own shackle mate weren't the only ones trying now tocommuni- sate with one another. The murmuring keptspreading. The hold would fall silent now only when the toubobcame with the food tub, or with the brushes to clean the filthfrom the shelves. And there was a new quality to the quietnessthat would fall at these times; for the first time since they had

been captured and thrown in chains, it was as if there wasamong the men a sense of being together.

CHAPTER 37

The next time the men were taken up onto the deck, Kuntamade a point of looking at the man behind him in line, the onewho lay beside him to the left when they were below. He was aSerere tribesman much older than Kunta, and his body, frontand back, was creased with whip cuts, some of them so deepand festering that Kunta felt badly for having wishedsometimes that he might strike the man in the darkness formoaning so steadily in his pain. Staring back at Kunta, theSerere's dark eyes were full of fury and defiance. A whiplashed out even as they stood looking at each other--this timeat Kunta, spurring him to move ahead. The force of the blowdrove him nearly to his knees and triggered an explosion ofrage. With his throat ripping out almost an animal's cry, Kuntalunged off balance toward the toubob, only to fall, sprawling,dragging his shackle mate down with him, as the tou- bobnimbly sprang clear of them both. Men milled around them asthe toubob, his eyes narrowing with hatred, brought the whipdown over and over on both Kunta and the Wolof, like aslashing knife. Trying to roll away, Kunta was kicked heavily inhis ribs. But somehow he and the gasping Wolof managed tostagger back up among the other men from their shelf whowere shambling toward their dousing with buckets ofseawater. A moment later, the stinging saltiness of it wasburning in Kunta's wounds, and his screams joined those of

others over the sound of the drum and the wheezing thing thathad again begun marking time for the chained men to jumpand dance for the toubob. Kunta and the Wolof were so weakfrom their new beating that twice they stumbled, but whipblows and kicks sent them hopping clumsily up and down intheir chains. So great was his fury that Kunta was barelyaware of the women singing "Toubob fa!" And when he hadfinally been chained back town in his place in the dark hold,his heart throbbed with lust to murder toubob. Every few daysthe eight naked toubob would again come into the stinkingdarkness and scrape their tubs full of the excrement that hadaccumulated on the shelves where the chained men lay. Kuntawould lie still with his syes staring balefully in hatred, followingthe bobbing orange lights, listening to the toubob cursing andsometimes ilipping and falling into the slickness underfoot--soplentiful now, because of the increasing looseness of themen's bowels, that the filth had begun to drop off the edges ofthe shelves down into the aisle way The last time they were ondeck, Kunta had noticed a Tian limping on a badly infectedleg. The chief toubob had ipplied grease to it, but it hadn'thelped, and the man had egun to scream horribly in thedarkness of the hold. When they next went on deck, he had tobe helped up,; nd Kunta saw that the leg, which had beengrayish be- ore, had begun to rot and stink even in the freshair. this time the man was kept up on deck when the rest weretaken back below. A few days later, the women told the otherprisoners in their singing that the man's leg had been cut offand that one of the women had been brought to tend him, butthat the man had died that night and been thrown over the

side. Starting then, when the toubob came to clean theshelves, they also dropped red- dot pieces of metal into pailsof strong vinegar. The; louds of acrid steam left the holdsmelling better, but soon it would again be overwhelmed bythe choking stink. [t was a smell that Kunta felt would neverleave his lungs and skin. The steady murmuring that went on inthe hold when- sver the toubob were gone kept growing involume and intensity as the men began to communicate betterand better with one another. Words not understood werewhispered from mouth 1o ear along the shelves until someonewho knew more than one tongue would send back theirmeanings. In the process, all of the men along each shelf[earned new words in tongues they had not spoken before.Sometimes men jerked upward, bumping their heads, in thedouble excitement of communicating with each other uid thefact that it was being done without the toubob's knowledge.Muttering among themselves for hours, the men developed adeepening sense of intrigue and of brotherhood. Though theywere of different villages and tribes, the feeling grew that theywere not from different peoples or places. When the toubobnext came to drive them up onto the deck, the chained menmarched as if they were on parade. And when theydescended again, several of those men who spoke severaltongues managed to change their position in line in order toget chained at the ends of shelves, thus permitting more rapidrelaying of translations. The toubob never seemed to notice,for they were either unable or unconcerned to distinguish onechained man from another. Questions, and responses tothem, had begun spreading in the hold. "Where are we being

taken?" That brought a babble of bitterness. "Who everreturned to tell us?" "Because they were eaten!" The question,"How long have we been here?" brought a rash of guesses ofup to a moon, until the question was translated to a man whohad been able to keep a count of daylights through a small airvent near where he was chained; he said that he had countedeighteen days since the great canoe had sailed. Because ofintrusions by toubob with their food tub or their scrapers, anentire day might be used up in relaying of responses to asingle statement or question. Anxious inquiries were passedalong for men who might know each other. "Is anyone herefrom Barrakunda village?" someone asked one day, and aftera time there came winging back from mouth to ear the joyousresponse, "I, Jabon Sallah, am here!" One day, Kunta nearlyburst with excitement when the Wolof hastily whispered, "Isanyone here from Juffure village?" "Yes, Kunta Kinte!" he sentback breathlessly. He lay almost afraid to breathe for the hourthat it took an answer to return: "Yes, that was the name. Iheard the drums of his grieving village." Kunta dissolved intosobs, his mind streaming with pictures of his family around aflapping white cockerel that died on its back as the villagewadanela went to spread that sad news among all of thepeople who would then come to Omoro, Binta, Lamin,Suwadu, and the baby Madi, all of them squatting about andweeping as the village drums beat out the words to informwhoever might hear them far away that a son of the villagenamed Kunta Kinte now was considered gone forever. Daysof talking sought answers to the question: "How could thetoubob of this canoe be attacked and killed?" Did anyone

have or know of anything that might be used as weapons?None did. Up on the deck, had anyone noticed anycarelessness or weaknesses on the part of the toubob thatcould be useful to a surprise attack? Again, none had. Themost useful information of any sort had some from thewomen's singing as the men danced in their chains: that aboutthirty toubob were riding with them on this big canoe. Therehad seemed to be many more, but the women were in a betterposition to count them. The women said also that there hadbeen more toubob at the beginning of the voyage, but five haddied. They had been sewn inside white cloths and thrownoverboard while the white-haired chief toubob read fromsome kind of book. The women also sang that the touboboften fought and beat each other viciously, usually as a resultaf arguments over which ones would next use the women.Thanks to their singing, not much happened up on the leekthat wasn't quickly told to the men dancing in their shains, whothen lay discussing it down in the hold. Then; ame the excitingnew development that contact had been sstablished with themen who were chained on the level yet below. Silence wouldfall in the hold where Kunta lay, md a question would be calledout from near the hatchway: "How many are down there?" Andafter a time the inswer would circulate on Kunta's level: "Webelieve about sixty of us." The relaying of any information fromwhatever source seemed about the only function that wouldjustify their itaying alive. When there was no news, the menwould: alk of their families, their villages, their professions,their arms, their hunts. And more and more frequently thereirose disagreements about how to kill the toubob, and when it

should be tried. Some of the men felt that, what- sver theconsequences, the toubob should be attacked the aext timethey were taken up on deck. Others felt that it would be wiserto watch and wait for the best moment Bitter disagreementsbegan to flare up. One debate was suddenly interrupted whenthe voice of an elder rang out, "Hear me! Though we are ofdifferent tribes and tongues, remember that we are the samepeople! We must be as one village, together in this place!"Murmurings of approval spread swiftly within the hold. Thatvoice had been heard before, giving counsel in times ofspecial stress. It was a voice with experience and authority aswell as wisdom. Soon the information passed from mouth toear that the speaker had been the alcala of his village. Aftersome time, he spoke again, saying now that some leadermust be found and agreed upon, and some attack plan mustbe proposed and agreed upon before there could be anyhope of overcoming the toubob, who were obviously both wellorganized and heavily armed. Again, the hold soon filled withmutterings of approval. The new and comforting sense ofcloseness with the other men made Kunta feel almost lessaware of the stink and filth, and even the lice and rats. Then heheard the new fear that was circulating--that yet another slateewas believed to be somewhere on the level of men below.One of the women had sung of having been among the groupof chained people whom this slatee had helped to bring,blindfolded, onto this canoe. She had sung that it was nightwhen her blindfold was removed, but she had seen the toubobgive that slatee liquor, which he drank until he stumbled aboutdrunkenly, and then the toubob, all howling with laughter, had

knocked him unconscious and dragged him into the hold. Thewoman sang that though she was not able to tell in any definiteway the face of that' slatee, he was almost surely somewherebelow in chains like the rest, in terror that he would bediscovered and killed, as he now knew that one slatee hadbeen already. In the hold, the men discussed how probablythis slatee, too, was able to speak some toubob words, and inhopes of saving his miserable life, he might try to warn thetoubob of any attack plans he learned of. It occurred to Kunta,as he shook his shackles at a fat rat, why he had known littleof slatees until now. It was because none of them would dareto live among people in villages, where even a strongsuspicion of who they were would bring about their instantdeath. He remembered that back in Juffure he often had feltthat his own father Omoro and yet older men, when they sataround the night fires, would seem to be needlessly occupiedwith dark worries and gloomy speculations about dangers towhich he and the other younger men privately thought theythemselves would never succumb. But now he understood whythe older men had worried about the safety of the village; theyhad known better than he how many slatees slithered about,many of them in The Gambia. The despised tan-coloredsasso borro children of toubob fathers were easy to identify;but not all. Kunta thought now about the girl of his village whohad been kidnaped by toubob and then escaped, who hadgone to the Council of Elders just before he had been takenaway, wanting to know what to do about her sasso borroinfant, and he wondered what the Council of Elders haddecided for her to do. Some few slatees, he learned now from

the talk in the hold, only supplied toubob canoes with suchgoods as indigo, gold, and elephants' teeth. But there werehundreds of others who helped, toubob to burn villages andcapture people. Some of the men told how children wereenticed with slices of sugar cane; then bags were thrown overtheir heads. Others said the slatees had beaten themmercilessly during the marches after their capture. One man'swife, big with child, had died on the road. The wounded son ofanother was left bleeding to die from whip cuts. The moreKunta heard, the more his rage became as great for others asfor himself. He lay there in the darkness hearing the voice ofhis father sternly warning him and Lamin never to wander offanywhere alone; Kunta desperately wished that he hadheeded his father's warnings. His heart sank with the thoughtthat he would never again be able to listen to his father, that forthe rest of whatever was going to be his life, he was going tohave to think for himself. "All things are the will of Allah!" Thatstatement--which had begun with the alcala--went from mouthto ear, and when it came to Kunta from the man lying on hisleft side, he turned his head to whisper the words to his Wolofshackle mate After a moment, Kunta realized that the Wolofhadn't whispered the words on to the next man, and afterwondering for a while why not, he thought that perhaps hehadn't said them clearly, so he started to whisper themessage once again. But abruptly the Wolof spat out loudlyenough to be heard across the entire hold, "If your Allah willsthis, give me the devil!" From elsewhere in the darknesscame several loud exclamations of agreement with the Wolof,and arguments broke out here and there. Kunta was deeply

shaken. The shocked realization that he lay with a paganburned into his brain, faith in Allah being as precious to him aslife itself. Until now he had respected the friendship and thewise opinions of his older shackle mate But now Kunta knewthat there could never be any more companionship betweenthem.

CHAPTER 38

Up on the deck now, the women sang of having managed tosteal and hide a few knives, and some other things that couldbe used as weapons. Down in the hold, even more stronglythan before, the men separated into two camps of opinion.The leader of the group that felt the toubob should be attackedwithout delay was a fierce-looking tattooed Wolof. On thedeck, every man had seen him dancing wildly in his chainswhile baring his sharply filed teeth at the toubob, who clappedfor him because they thought he was grinning. Those whobelieved in the wisdom of further watchful preparation wereled by the tawny Foulah who had been beaten for choking theslatee to death. There were a few followers of the Wolof whoexclaimed that the toubob should be attacked when many ofthem were in the hold, where the chained men could seebetter than they and the element of surprise would begreatest--but those who urged this plan were dismissed asfoolish by the others, who pointed out that the bulk of thetoubob would still be up on the deck, and thus able to kill thechained men below like so many rats. Sometimes when thearguments between the Wolof and the Foulah would reach the

point of shouting, the alcala would intervene, commandingthem to be quieter lest their discussion be overheard by thetoubob. Whichever leader's thinking finally prevailed, Kuntawas ready to fight to the death. Dying held no fear for him anymore. Once he had decided that he would never see hisfamily and home again, he felt the same as dead already. Hisonly fear now was that he might die without at least one of thetoubob also dead by his hand. But the leader toward whomKunta was most inclined--along with most of the men, he felt--was the cautious, whip-scarred Foulah. Kunta had found outby now that most of the men in the hold were Mandinkas, andevery Mandinka knew well that the Foulah people were knownfor spending years, even their entire lives if need be, toavenge with death any serious wrong ever done to them. Ifsomeone killed a Foulah and escaped, the Foulah's sonswould never rest until one day they found and killed themurderer. "We must be as one behind the leader we agreeupon," the alcala counseled. There was angry muttering fromthose who followed the Wolof, but when it had become clearthat most of the men sided with the Foulah, he promptlyissued his first order. "We must examine toubob's everyaction with the eyes of hawks. And when the time comes, wemust be warriors." He advised them to follow the counsel ofthe woman who had told them to look happy when theyjumped on deck in their chains. That would relax the toubob'sguard, which would make them easier to take by surprise. Andthe Foulah also said that every man should locate with hiseyes any weapon like object that he could swiftly grab anduse. Kunta was very pleased with himself, for during his times

up on deck, he had already spotted a spike, tied looselybeneath a space of railing, which he intended to snatch anduse as a spear to plunge into the nearest toubob belly. Hisfingers would clutch around the handle he imagined in hishands every time he thought of it. Whenever the toubob wouldjerk the hatch cover open and climb down among them,shouting and wielding their whips, Kunta lay as still as a forestanimal. He thought of what the kin tango had said duringmanhood training, that the hunter' should learn from what Allahhimself had taught the animals--how to hide and watch thehunters who sought to kill them. Kunta had lain for hoursthinking how the toubob seemed to enjoy causing pain. Heremembered with loathing the times when toubob would laughas they lashed the men--particularly those whose bodies werecovered with bad sores--and then disgustedly wipe off theooze that splattered onto them. Kunta lay also bitterly picturingthe toubob in his mind as they forced the women into thecanoe's dark corners in the nights; he imagined that he couldhear the women screaming. Did the toubob have no women oftheir own? Was that why they went like dogs after others'women? The toubob seemed to respect nothing at all; theyseemed to have no gods, not even any spirits to worship. Theonly thing that could take Kunta's mind off the toubob--andhow to kill them--was the rats, which had become bolder andbolder with each passing day. Their nose whiskers wouldtickle between Kunta's legs as they went to bite a sore thatwas bleeding or running with pus. But the lice preferred to bitehim on the face, and they would suck at the liquids in thecorners of Kunta's eyes, or the snot draining from his nostrils.

He would squirm his body, with his fingers darting andpinching to crush any lice that he might trap between his nails.But worse even than the lice and rats was the pain in Kunta'sshoulders, elbows, and hips, stinging now like fire from theweeks of steady rubbing against the hard, rough boardsbeneath him. He had seen the raw patches on other menwhen they were on deck, and his own cries joined theirswhenever the big canoe pitched or rolled somewhat morethan usual. And Kunta had seen that when they were up on thedeck, some of the men had begun to act as if they werezombies--their faces wore a look that said that they were nolonger afraid, because they no longer cared whether they livedor died. Even when the whips of the toubob lashed them, Iheywould react only slowly. When they had been scrubbed of theirfilth, some were simply unable even to try jumping in theirchains, and the white-haired chief toubob, with a look of worry,would order the others to permit those men to sit, which theydid with their foreheads between their knees and the thin,pinkish fluid draining down their raw backs. Then the chieftoubob would force their heads backward and into theirupturned mouths pour some stuff that they would usually chokeup. And some of them fell limply on their sides, unable tomove, and toubob would carry them back into the hold. Evenbefore these men died, as most of them did, Kunta knew thatin some way they had willed themselves to die. But inobedience to the Foulah, Kunta and most of the men tried tokeep acting happy as they danced in their chains, although theeffort was like a canker in their souls. It was possible to see,though, that when the toubob were thus made more relaxed,

fewer whips fell on backs, and the men were allowed toremain on the sunlit deck for longer periods than before. Afterenduring the buckets of seawater and the torture of thescrubbing brushes, Kunta and the rest of the men sat restingon their haunches and watched the toubobs' every move--howthey generally spaced themselves along the rails; how theyusually kept their weapons too close to be grabbed away. Nochained man's eye missed it whenever any toubob leaned hisgun briefly against the rails. While they sat on the deck,anticipating the day when they would kill the toubob, Kuntaworried about the big metal thing that showed through thebarricade. He knew that at whatever cost in lives, that weaponwould have to be overwhelmed and taken, for even though hedidn't know exactly what it was, he knew that it was capable ofsome terrible act of destruction, which was of course why thetoubob had placed it there. He worried also about those fewtoubob who were always turning the wheel of the big canoe, alittle this way, a. little that way, while staring at a roundbrownish metal thing before them. Once, when they weredown in the hold, the alcala spoke his own thought: "If thosetoubob are killed, who will run this canoe?" And the Foulahlead- sr responded that those toubob needed to be takenalive. "With spears at their throats," he said, "they will return usto our land, or they will die." The very thought that he mightactually see his land, his home, his family once again sent ashiver down Kunta's spine. But even if that should happen, hethought he would have to live to be wry old if he was ever toforget, even a little bit, that toubob had done to him. There wasyet another fear within Kunta--th? " bob might have the eyes to

notice how differ the other men danced in their chains on thedeck, for now they were really dancing; they couldn't help theirmovements from showing what was deep in their minds: swiftgestures of hurling off shackles and chains, then clubbing,strangling, spearing, killing. While they were dancing, Kuntaand the other men would even whoop out hoarsely theiranticipation of slaughter. But to his great relief, when thedancing ended and he could again contain himself, he sawthat the unsuspecting toubob only grinned with happiness.Then, one day up on the deck, the chained people suddenlystood rooted in astonishment and stared--along with thetoubob--at a flight of hundreds of flying fish that filled the airabove the water like silvery birds. Kunta was watching,dumfounded, when suddenly he heard a scream. Whirling, hesaw the fierce, tattooed Wolof in the act of snatching a metalstick from a toubob. Swinging it like a club, he sent thetoubob's brains spraying onto the deck; as other toubobsnapped from their frozen positions of shock, he batteredanother to the deck. It was done so swiftly that the Wolof,bellowing in rage, was clubbing his fifth toubob when the flashof a long knife lopped off his head cleanly at the shoulders.His head hit the deck before his body had crumpled down,and both spurted blood from their stumps. The eyes in theface were still open, and they looked very surprised. Amidshoutings of panic, more and more toubob scrambled to thescene, rushing out of doors and sliding like monkeys downfrom among the billowing white cloths. As the womenshrieked, the shackled men huddled together in a circle. Themetal sticks barked flame and smoke; then the big black

barrel exploded with a thunderous roar and a gushing cloud ofheat and smoke just over their heads, and they screamed andsprawled over each other in horror. From behind the barricadebolted the chief toubob and his scar-faced mate, both of themscreaming in rage. The huge one struck the nearest toubob ablow that sent blood spurting from his mouth, then all of theother toubob were a mass of screaming and shouting as withtheir lashes and knives and fire sticks they rushed to herd theshackled men back toward the opened hatch. Kunta moved;not feeling the lashes that struck him, still awaiting theFoulah's signal to attack. But almost before he realized it, theying were below and chained back in their dark places and thehatch cover had been slammed down. But they were notalone. In the commotion, a toubob had been trapped downthere with them. He dashed this way and that in the darkness,stumbling and bumping into the shelves, screaming in terror,scrambling up when he fell and dashing off again. Hisbowlings sounded like some primeval beast's. "Toubob fa!"somebody shouted, and other voices joined him: "Toubob fa!Toubob fa!" they shouted, louder and louder, as more andmore men joined the chorus. It was as if the toubob knew theymeant it for him, and pleading sounds came from him asKunta lay silent as if frozen, none of his muscles able to move.His head was pounding, his body poured out sweat, he wasgasping to breathe. Suddenly the hatch cover was snatchedapen and a dozen toubob came pounding down the stairs intothe dark hold. Some of their whips had slashed down anto thetrapped toubob before he could make them realize he wasone of them. Then, under viciously lashing whips, the men

were again unchained and beaten, kicked back up onto thedeck, where they were made to watch as four toubob withheavy whips beat and cut into a pulpy mess the headlessbody af the Wolof. The chained men's naked bodies shonewith sweat and blood from their cuts and sores, but scarcelysound came from among them. Every one of the toubob washeavily armed now, and murderous rage was upon their facesas they stood in a surrounding ring, glaring and breathingheavily. Then the whips lashed down again as the naked menwere beaten back down into the hold and rechained in theirplaces. For a long while, no one dared even to whisper.Among the torrent of thoughts and emotions that assailedKunta when his terror had subsided enough for him to think atall was the feeling that he wasn't alone in admiring thecourage of the Wolof, who had died as a warrior wassupposed to. He remembered his own tingling anticipationthat the Foulah leader would at any instant signal an at- tack--but that signal hadn't come. Kunta was bitter, for whatevermight have happened would have been all over now; and whynot die now? What better time was goir>' to come? Was thereany reason to keep hanging onto here in this stinkingdarkness? He wished desperately that he could communicateas he once did with his shackle- mate, but the Wolof was apagan. Mutterings of anger at the Foulah's failure to act werecut short by his dramatic message: The attack, he announced,would come the next time the men on their level of the holdwere on deck being washed and jumping in their chains, whenthe toubob seemed most relaxed. "Many among us will die,"the Foulah said, "as our brother has died for us--but our

brothers below " will avenge us. " There was grunting approvalin the murmurings that circulated now. And Kunta lay in thedarkness listening to the raspings of a stolen file rubbingagainst chains. He knew for weeks that the file marks hadbeen carefully covered with filth so that the toubob wouldn'tsee. He lay fixing in his mind the faces of those who turned thegreat wheel of the canoe, since their lives were the only onesto be spared. But during that long night in the hold, Kunta andthe other men began to hear an odd new sound they hadnever heard before. It seemed to be coming through the deckfrom over their heads. Silence fell rapidly in the hold and,listening intently, Kunta guessed that stronger winds must bemaking the great white cloths flap much harder than usual.Soon there was another sound, as if rice was falling onto thedeck; he guessed after a while that it must be rain peltingdown. Then he was sure that he heard, unmistakably, themuffled crack and rumble of heavy thunder. Feet could beheard pounding on the deck overhead, and the big canoebegan to pitch and shudder. Kunta's screams were joined byothers' as each movement up and down, or from side to side,sent the chained men's naked shoulders, elbows, andbuttocks--already festered and bleeding--grinding down evenharder against the rough boards beneath them, grating awaystill more of the soft, infected skin until the muscles underneathbegan rubbing against the boards. The hot, lancing pains thatshot from head to foot almost blacked him out, and it was as iffrom afar that he became dimly aware of the sound of waterpouring down into the hold--and of shrieks amid a bedlam ofterror. The water poured more and more rapidly into the hold

until Kunta heard the sound of something heavy, like somegreat coarse cloth, being dragged over the deck above.Moments later, the flood subsided to a trickle--but then Kuntabegan to sweat and gag. The toubob had covered the holesabove them to shut out the water, but in so doing they had cutoff all air from the outside, trapping the heat and stenchentirely within the hold. It was beyond tolerance, and the menbegan to choke and vomit, rattling their shackles franticallyand screaming in panic. Kunta's nose, throat, and then hislungs felt as if they were being stuffed with blazing cotton. Hewas gasping for more breath to scream with. Surrounded bythe wild frenzy of ierking chains and suffocating cries, he didn'teven know it when both his bladder and his bowels releasedthemselves. Sledgehammer waves crashed on the hull, andthe timbers behind their heads strained against the pegs thatheld them together. The choked screams of the men down inthe hold grew louder when the great canoe plungedsickeningly downward, shuddering as tons of ocean pouredacross her. Then, miraculously, she rose again under thetorrential rains that beat down on her like hailstones. As thenext mountainous broadside drove her back down again, andup again--heeling, rolling, trembling--the noise in the holdbegan to abate as more and more of the chained men faintedand went limp. When Kunta came to, he was up on deck,amazed to 5nd himself still alive. The orange lights, movingabout, made him think at first they were still below. Then hetook a deep breath and realized it was fresh air. He laysprawled on his back, which was exploding with pains soterrible that he couldn't stop crying, even in front of the toubob.

He saw them far overhead, ghostly in the moonlight, crawlingalong the cross arms of the tall, thick poles; they seemed tobe trying to unroll the great white cloths. Then, turning hispounding head toward a loud noise, Kunta saw still moretoubob stumbling up through the open hatchway, staggeringas they dragged the limp, shackled forms of naked men uponto the deck of the sanoe, dumping them down near Kuntaand others already piled up like so many logs. Kunta's shacklemate was trembling violently and gagging between moans.And Kunta's own gagging wouldn't stop as he watched thewhite-haired chief toubob and the huge scarred one shoutingand cursing at the others, who were slipping and falling in thevomit underfoot, some of it their own as they continued to dragup bodies from below. The great canoe was still pitchingheavily, and drenching spray now and then splashed over thequarterdeck. The chief toubob had difficulty keeping hisbalance, now moving hurriedly, as another toubob followedhim with a light. One or the other of them would turn upwardthe face of each limp, naked man, and the light would be heldclose; the chief toubob would peer closely and sometimes hewould put his fingers on one wrist of that shackled man.Sometimes, then, cursing bitterly, he would bark an order andthe other toubob would lift and drop the man into the ocean.Kunta knew these men had died below. He asked himself howAllah, of whom it was said that He was in all places at alltimes, could possibly be here. Then he thought that even toquestion such a thing would make him no better than thepagan shuddering and moaning alongside him. And he turnedhis thoughts to prayer for the souls of the men who had been

thrown over the side, joined already with their ancestors. Heenvied them.

CHAPTER 39

By the time the dawn came, the weather had calmed andcleared, but the ship still rolled in heavy swells. Some of themen who still lay on their backs, or on their sides, showedalmost no signs of life; others were having dreadfulconvulsions. But along with most of the other men, Kunta hadmanaged to get himself into a sitting position that relievedsomewhat the horrible pains in his back and buttocks. Helooked dully at the backs of those nearby; all were bleedingafresh through blood already dried and clotted, and he sawwhat seemed to be bones showing at the shoulders andelbows. With a vacant look in another direction, he could seea woman lying with her legs wide apart; her private parts,turned in his direction, were smudged with some strangegrayish-yellowish paste, and his nose picked up someindescribable smell that he knew must come from her. Nowand then one of the men who were still lying down would try toraise himself up. Some would only fall back, but among thosewho succeeded in sitting up, Kunta noticed, was the Foulahleader. He was bleeding heavily, and his expression was ofone who wasn't part of what was going on around him. Kuntadidn't recognize many of the other men he saw. He guessedthat they must be from the level below his. These were themen whom the Foulah had said would avenge the dead fromthe first level after the toubob were attacked. The attack.

Kunta didn't have the strength even to think about it any more.In some of the faces around him, including that of the man hewas shackled to, Kunta saw that death was etched. Withoutknowing why, he was sure they were going to die. The face ofthe Wolof was grayish in color, and each time he gasped tobreathe there was a bubbling sound in his nose. Even theWolof's shoulder and elbow bones, which showed through theraw flesh, had a grayish look. Almost as if he knew that Kuntawas looking at him, the Wolof's eyes fluttered open andlooked back at Kunta but without a sign of recognition. Hewas a pagan, but.. Kunta extended a finger weakly to touchthe Wolof on the arm. But there was no sign of any awarenessof Kunta's gesture, or of how much it had meant Although hispains didn't subside, the warm sun began to make Kunta feela little better. He glanced down and saw, in a pool aroundwhere he sat, the blood that had drained from his back and ashuddering whine forced itself up his throat. Toubob who werealso sick and weak were moving about with brushes andbuckets, scrubbing up vomit and feces, and others werebringing tubs of filth up from below and dumping it over theside. In the daylight, Kunta vacantly noted their pale, hairyskins, and the smallness of their fotos. After a while hesmelled the steam of boiling vinegar and tar through thegratings as the chief toubob began to move among theshackled people applying his salve. He would, put a plaster ofcloth smeared with powder wherever the bones showedthrough, but seeping blood soon made the plasters slip andfall off. He also opened some of the men's mouths--includingKunta's--and forced down their throats something from a black

bottle. At sunset, those who were well enough were fed--maizeboiled with red palm oil and served in a small tub they dippedinto with their hands. Then each of them had a scoopful ofwater brought by a toubob from a barrel that was kept at thefoot of the biggest of the poles on deck. By the time the starscame out, they were back below in chains. The emptiedspaces on Kunta's level, where men had died, were filled withthe sickest of the men from the level below, and their moans ofsuffering were even louder than before. For three days Kuntalay among them in a twilight of pain, vomiting, and fever, hiscries mingled with theirs. He was also among those rackedwith fits of deep, hoarse coughing. His neck was hot andswollen, and his entire body poured with sweat. He came outof his stupor only once, when he felt the whiskers of a rat brushalong his hip; almost "by reflex his free hand darted out andtrapped the rat's head and foreparts in its grasp. He couldn'tbelieve it. All the rage that had been bottled up in him for solong flooded down his arm and into his hand. Tighter andtighter he squeezed--the rat wriggling and squealingfrantically--until he could feel the eyes popping out, the skullcrunching under his thumb. Only then did the strength ebb fromhis fingers and the hand open to release the crushed remains.A day or two later, the chief toubob began to enter the holdhimself, discovering each time--and unchaining--at least onemore lifeless body. Gagging in the stench, with others holdingup lights for him to see by, he applied salve and powder andforced the neck of his black bottle into the mouths of those stillliving. Kunta fought not to scream with pain whenever thefingers touched the grease to his back or the bottle to his lips.

He also shrank from the touch of those pale hands against hisskin; he would rather have felt the lash. And in the light'sorange glow, the faces of the toubob had a kind of palenesswithout features that he knew would never leave his mind anymore than the stink in which he lay. Lying there in filth andfever, Kunta didn't know if they had been down in the belly ofthis canoe for two moons or six, or even as long as a rain. Theman who had been lying near the vent through which they hadcounted the days was dead now. And there was no longer anycommunication among those who had survived. Once whenKunta came jerking awake from a half sleep, he felt anameless terror and sensed that death was near him. Then,after a while, he realized that he could no longer hear thefamiliar wheezing of his shackle mate beside him. It was along time before Kunta could bring himself to reach out a handand touch the man's arm. He recoiled in horror, for it was coldand rigid. Kunta lay shuddering. Pagan or not, he and theWolof had talked together, they had lain together. And now hewas alone. When the toubob came down again, bringing theboiled corn, Kunta cringed as their gagging and mutteringcame closer and closer. Then he felt one of them shaking thebody of the Wolof and cursing. Then Kunta heard food beingscraped as usual into his own pan, which was thrust upbetween him and the still Wolof, and the toubob moved ondown the shelf. However starved his belly was, Kunta couldn'tthink of eating. After a while two toubob came and unshackledthe Wolof's ankle and wrist from Kunta's. Numb with shock, helistened as the body was dragged and bumped down theaisle and up the stairs. He wanted to shove himself away from

that vacant space, but the instant he moved, the raking of hisexposed muscles against the boards made him scream inagony. As he lay still, letting the pain subside, he could hear inhis mind the death waitings of the women of the Wolof svillage, mourning his death. "Tou- bob fa!" he screamed intothe stinking darkness, his cuffed hand jangling the chain of theWolof's empty cuff. The next time he was up on deck, Kunta'sglance met the gaze of one of the toubob who had beaten himand the Wolof. For an instant they looked deeply into eachother's eyes, and though the toubob's face and eyes tightenedwith hatred, this time no whip fell upon Kunta's back. As Kuntawas recovering from his surprise, he looked across the deckand for the first time since the storm, saw the women. Hisheart sank. Of the original twenty, only twelve remained. But hefelt a pang of relief that all four of the children had survived.There was no scrubbing this time--the wounds on the men'sbacks were too bad--and they jumped in their chains onlyweakly, this time to the beat of the drum alone; the toubob whohad squeezed the wheezing thing was gone. As well as theycould, in their pain, the women who were left sang that quite afew more toubob had been sewn into white cloths anddropped overboard. With a great weariness in his face, thewhite-haired toubob was moving among the naked peoplewith his salve and bottle when a man with the empty shacklesof a dead partner dangling from his wrist and ankle boltedfrom where he stood and raced to the rail. He had scrambledhalfway over it when one of the nearby toubob managed tocatch up with him and grab the traning chain just as he leaped.An instant later his body was banging against the side of the

great canoe and the deck was ringing with his strangledhowls. Suddenly, unmistakably, amid the cries, Kunta heardsome toubob words. A hissing rose from the chained men; itwas the other slatee, without question. As the man flailedagainst the hull--screeching "Toubob fa!"and then begging formercy--the chief toubob went over to the rail and looked down.After listening for a moment, he abruptly jerked the chain fromthe other toubob and let the slatee drop screaming into thesea. Then, without a word, he went back to greasing andpowdering wounds as if nothing had happened. Though theirwhips fell less often, the guards seemed to act terrified of theirprisoners now. Each time the prisoners were brought up ondeck, the toubob ringed them closely, with fire sticks andknives drawn, as if at any moment the shackled people mightattack. But as far as Kunta was concerned, though hedespised the toubob with all his being, he didn't care aboutkilling them any more. He was so sick and weak that he didn'teven care if he lived or died himself. Up on the deck he wouldsimply lie down on his side and close his eyes. Soon he wouldfeel the chief toubob's hands smearing salve on his backagain. And then, for a while, he would feel nothing but thewarmth of the sun and smell only the fresh ocean breeze, andthe pain would dissolve into a quiet haze of waiting--almostblissfully--to die and join his ancestors. Occasionally, down inthe hold, Kunta would hear a little murmuring here and there,and he wondered what they could find to talk about. And whatwas the point? His Wolof shackle mate was gone, and deathhad taken some of those who had translated for the others.Besides, it took too much strength to talk any more. Each day

Kunta felt a little worse, and it didn't help to see what washappening to some of the other men. Their bowels had begunto drain out a mixture of clotted blood and thick, grayish-yellow, horribly foul-smelling mucus. When they first smelledand saw the putrid discharge, the toubob became agitated.One of them went rushing back up through the hatch, andminutes later the chief tou- bob descended. Gagging, hegestured sharply for the other toubob to unshackle thescreaming men and remove them from the hold. More toubobsoon returned with lights, hoes, brushes, and buckets.Vomiting and gasping curses, they scraped, scrubbed, andscrubbed again the shelves from which sick men had beentaken away. Then they poured boiling vinegar on those placesand moved the men lying next to those places to other emptyspaces farther away. But nothing helped, for the bloodycontagion--which Kunta heard the toubob call "the flux"--spread and spread. Soon he too began to writhe with pains inhis head and back, then to roast and shiver with fever andchills, and finally to feel his insides clenching and squeezingout the stinking blood and ooze. Feeling as if his entrails werecoming out along with the discharge, Kunta nearly fainted fromthe pain. Between screams, he cried out things he couldhardly believe he was uttering: "Omoro--Omar the SecondCaliph, third after Muhammad the Prophet! Kairaba--Kairabameans peace!" Finally his voice was all but gone fromshrieking and could hardly be heard amid the sobbing of theothers. Within two days, the flux had afflicted nearly every manin the hold. By now the bloody globs were dripping down offthe shelves into the aisle ways and there was no way for the

toubob to avoid brushing against it or stepping on it--cursingand vomiting--whenever they went into the hold. Each day nowthe men would be taken up on deck while the toubob tookdown buckets of vinegar and tar to boil into steam to clean thehold. Kunta and his mates stumbled up through the hatch andacross to where they would flop down on the deck, whichwould soon be fouled with the blood from their backs and thedischarge from their bowels. The smell of the fresh air wouldseem to go all through Kunta's body, from his feet to his headand then, when they were returned to the hold, the vinegar andtar smell would do the same, although the smell of it neverkilled the stench of the flux. In his delirium, Kunta saw flashingglimpses of his Grandma Yaisa lying propped up on one armon her bed talking to him for the last time, when he was but asmall boy; and he thought of old Grandmother Nyo Boto, andthe stories she would tell when he was back in the first kafo,about the crocodile who was caught in a trap by the river whenthe boy came along to set it free. Moaning and babbling, hewould claw and kick when the toubob came anywhere nearhim. Soon most of the men could no longer walk at all, andtoubob had to help them up onto the deck so that the white-haired one could apply his useless salve in the light of day.Every day someone died and was thrown overboard,including a few more of the women and two of the fourchildren--as well as several of the toubob themselves. Many ofthe surviving toubob were hardly able to drag themselvesaround any more, and one manned the big canoe's wheelwhile standing in a tub that would catch his flux mess. Thenights and the days tumbled into one another until one day

Kunta and the few others from below who yet could manage todrag themselves up the hatch steps stared over the rail withdull astonishment at a rolling carpet of gold-colored seaweedfloating on the surface of the water as far as they could see.Kunta knew that the water couldn't continue forever, and now itseemed that the big canoe was about to go over the edge ofthe world--but he didn't really care. Deep within himself, hesensed that he was nearing the end; he was unsure only of bywhat means he was going to die. Dimly he noted that thegreat white sheets were dropping, no longer full of wind asthey had been. Up among the poles, the toubob were pullingtheir maze of ropes to nove the sheets this way and that, tryingto pick up any ittle breeze. From the toubob down on the deck,they 'rew up buckets of water and sloshed them against thereal cloths. But still the great canoe remained becalmed, ndgently it began to roll back and forth upon the swells. All thetoubob were on the edges of their tempers now, he white-haired one even shouting at his knife-scarred nate, whocursed and beat the lesser toubob more than be- 'ore, andthey in turn fought with each other even more han they hadbefore. But there were no further heatings >t the shackledpeople, except on rare occasions, and they Degan to spendalmost all the daylight hours up on deck. md--to Kunta'samazement--they were given a full pint if water every day.When they were taken up from the hold one morning, he mensaw hundreds of flying fish piled up on the deck. The womensang that the toubob had set lights out on the ieck the nightbefore to lure them, and they had flown iboard and flounderedabout in vain trying to escape. That light they were boiled with

the maize, and the taste of resh fish startled Kunta withpleasure. He wolfed the food iown, bones and all. When thestinging yellow powder was sprinkled next igainst Kunta'sback, the chief toubob applied a thick cloth aandage againsthis right shoulder. Kunta knew that meant us bone had begunshowing through, as was the case with .0 many other menalready, especially the thinner ones, ivho had the least muscleover their bones. The bandaging nade Kunta's shoulder hurteven more than before. But ie hadn't been back down in thehold for long before the lee ping blood made the soakedbandage slip loose. It didn't natter. Sometimes his mind woulddwell on the horrors he lad been through, or on his deeploathing of all toubob; sut mostly he just lay in the stinkingdarkness, eyes gummy with some yellowish matter, hardlyaware that he was still ilive. He heard other men crying out, orbeseeching Allah to save them, but he neither knew nor caredwho they were. He would drift off into fitful, moaning sleep, withjumbled ireams of working in the fields back in Juffure, of leafygreen farms, of fish leaping from the glassy surface of theaolong, of fat antelope haunches roasting over glowing coals,of gourds of steaming tea sweetened with honey. Then,drifting again into wakefulness, he sometimes heard himselfmouthing bitter, incoherent threats and begging aloud, againsthis will, for a last look at his family. Each of them--Omoro,Binta, Lamin, Suwadu, Madi--was a stone in his heart. Ittortured him to think that he had caused them grief. Finally hewould wrench his mind away to something else, but it wouldn'thelp. His thoughts would always drift to something like thedrum he had been going to make for himself. He'd think about

how he would have practiced on it at night while guarding thegroundnut fields, where no one could hear his mistakes. Butthen he would remember the day he had gone to chop downthe tree trunk for the drum, and it would all come floodingback. Among the men who were still alive, Kunta was one ofthe last who were able to climb down unassisted from theirshelf and up the steps to the deck. But then his wasting legsbegan trembling and buckling under him and finally he, too,had to be half carried and half dragged to the deck. Moaningquietly, with his head between his knees, rheumy eyesclamped tight, he sat limply until his turn came to be cleaned.The toubob now used a large soapy sponge lest a hard-bristled brush do further damage to the men's gouged andbleeding backs. But Kunta was still better off than most, whowere able only to lie on their sides, seeming almost as if theyhad stopped breathing. Among them all, only the remainingwomen and children were reasonably healthy; they hadn'tbeen shackled and chained down within the darkness, filth,stench, lice, fleas, rats, and contagion. The oldest of thesurviving women, one of about Binta's rains--Mbuto was hername, a Man- dinka of the village of Kerewan--had suchstateliness and dignity that even in her nakedness it was as ifshe wore a robe. The toubob didn't even stop her from movingwith comforting words among the shackled men lying sick onthe deck, rubbing fevered chests and foreheads. "Mother!Mother!" Kunta whispered when he felt her soothing hands,and another man, too weak to speak, just gaped his jaws inan attempt to smile. Finally, Kunta could no longer even eatwithout help. The draining shreds of muscle in his shoulders

and elbows refused to lift his hands enough for him to clawinto the food pan. Often now the feeding was done with themen up on deck, and one day Kunta's fingernails werescrabbling to get up over the edges of the pan when the scar-faced toubob noticed it. He barked an order at one of thelesser toubob, who proceeded to force into Kunta's mouth ahollow tube and pour the gruel through it. Gagging on the tube,Kunta gulped and slobbered the food down, then sprawled outon his belly. The days were growing hotter, and even up on thedeck everyone was sweltering in the still air. But after a fewmore days, Kunta began to feel a breath of cooling breeze.The big cloths up on the tall poles started to snap again andsoon were billowing in the wind. The toubob up above werespringing about like monkeys again, and soon the big canoewas cutting through the water with froth curling at her bow. Thenext morning, more toubob than usual came thudding downthrough the hatch, and much earlier than ever before. Withgreat excitement in their words and movements, they rushedalong the aisles, unchaining the men and hurriedly helpingthem upward. Stumbling up through the hatch behind anumber who were ahead of him, Kunta blinked in the early-morning light and then saw the other toubob and the womenand children standing at the rails. The toubob were alllaughing, cheering, and gesturing wildly. Between thescabbed backs of the other men, Kunta squinted and thensaw... Though still blurred in the distance, it was unmistakablysome piece of Allah's earth. These toubob really did havesome place to, put their feet upon--the land of toubabo doo--which the ancient forefathers said stretched from the sunrise

to the sunset. Kunta's whole body shook. The sweat camepopping out and glistened on his forehead. The voyage wasover. He had lived through it all. But his tears soon flooded theshoreline into a gray, swimming mist, for Kunta knew thatwhatever came next was going to be yet worse.

CHAPTER 40

Back down in the darkness of the hold, the chained men weretoo afraid to open their mouths. In the silence, Kunta couldhear the ship's timbers creaking, the muted ssss of the seaagainst the hull, and the dull dumpings of toubob feet rushingabout on the deck overhead. Suddenly some Mandinkabegan shrieking the praises of Allah, and soon all the othershad joined him--until there was a bedlam of praise andpraying and of chains being rattled with all the strength themen could muster. Amid the noise, Kunta didn't hear the hatchwhen it scraped open, but the jarring shaft of daylight stilledhis tongue and jerked his head in that direction. Blinking hiseyes to compress the mucus in them, he watched dimly as thetoubob entered with their lanterns and began to herd them--with unusual haste--back onto the deck. Wielding their long-handled brushes once again, the toubob ignored the men'sscreams as they scrubbed the encrusted filth from theirfestering bodies, and the chief toubob moved down the linesprinkling his yellow powder. But this time, where the muscleswere rubbed through deeply, he signaled for his big assistantto apply a black substance with a wide, flat brush. When ittouched Kunta's raw buttocks, the rocketing pain smashed

him dizzily to the deck. As he lay with his whole body feelingas if it were on fire, he heard men howling anew in terror, andsnapping his head up, he saw several of the toubob engagedin what could only be preparing the men to be eaten. Severalof them, in pairs, were pushing first one chained man and thenthe next into a kneeling position where he was held while athird toubob brushed onto his head a white frothing stuff andthen, with a narrow, gleaming thing, raked the hair off hisscalp, leaving blood trickling down across his face. When theyreached Kunta and seized him, he screamed and struggledwith all his might until a heavy kick in the ibs left him gaspingfor breath while the skin on his head lumbly felt the frothingand the scraping. Next the chained Then's bodies were oileduntil they shone, and then they ere made to step into someodd loincloth that had two oles the legs went through and thatalso covered their rivate parts. Finally, under the close scrutinyof the chief: oubob, they were chained prostrate along the railsas the iun reached the center of the sky. Kunta lay numbly, in akind of stupor. It came into his amd that when they finally atehis flesh and sucked the ones, his spirit would already haveescaped to Allah. He as praying silently when barking shoutsfrom the chief: oubob and his big helper made him open hiseyes in time o watch the lesser toubob dashing up the tallpoles. Only his time their grunts, as they strained at the ropes,were lixed with excited shouts and laughter. A momeriflaterlost of the great white sheets slackened and crumpled[ownward. Kunta's nostrils detected a new smell in the air;actually, it was a mingling of many smells, most of themstrange and unknown to him. Then he thought he heard new

sounds in the distance, from across the water. Lying on thedeck, with this crusty eyes half shut, he couldn't tell fromwhere. But soon the sounds grew closer, and as they did, hisfearful whimperings joined those of his mates. As the soundsgot louder and louder, so did their praying and gibbering--untilfinally, in the light wind, Kunta could smell the bodies of manyunfamiliar toubob. Just then the big canoe bumped hardagainst something solid and unyielding, and it lurched heavily,rocking back and forth until, for the first time since they had leftAfrica four and a half moons before, it was secured by ropesand fell still. The chained men sat frozen with terror. Kunta'sarms were locked around his knees, and his eyes wereclamped shut as if he were paralyzed. For as long as hecould, he held his breath against the sickening waye of smells,but when something clumped heavily onto the deck, he slit hiseyes open and saw two new toubob stepping down from awide plank holding a white cloth over their noses. Movingbriskly, they shook hands with the chief toubob, who was nowall grins, clearly anxious to please them. Kunta silently beggedAllah's forgiveness and mercy as the toubob began rushingalong the rails unchaining the black men and gesturing withshouts for them to stand up. When Kunta and his matesclutched at their chains--not wanting to let go of what hadbecome almost a part of their bodies--the whips began tocrack, first over their heads, then against their backs. Instantly,amid screams, they let go of the chains and stumbled to theirfeet. Over the side of the big canoe, down on the dock, Kuntacould see dozens of toubob stamping, laughing, pointing intheir excitement, with dozens more running from all directions

to join them. Under the whips, they were driven in a stumblingsingle file up over the side and down the sloping plank towardthe waiting mob. Kunta's knees almost buckled under him ashis feet touched the toubob earth, but other toubob withcocked whips kept them moving closely alongside the jeeringcrowd, their massed smell like the blow of a giant fist inKunta's face. When one black man fell, crying out to Allah, hischains pulled down the men ahead of and behind him. Whipslashed them all back up again as the toubob crowd screamedin excitement. The impulse to dash and escape surged wildlyin Kunta, but the whips kept his chained line moving. Theytrudged past toubob riding in extraordinary two-wheeled andfour- wheeled vehicles drawn by huge animals that looked alittle like donkeys; then past a toubob throng milling around insome kind of marketplace stacked with colorful piles of whatseemed to be fruits and vegetables. Finely clothed toubobregarded them with expressions of loathing, while moreroughly clad toubob pointed and hooted with enjoyment. Oneof the latter, he noticed, was a she toubob, her stringy hair thecolor of straw. After seeing the hungry way the toubob on thegreat canoe had lusted after black women, he was amazed tosee that the toubob had women of their own; but looking atthis specimen, he could understand why they preferredAfricans. Kunta darted a glance sideways as they passed agroup of toubob screaming crazily around a flurry of two cocksfighting with each other. And hardly had that din faded behindthem when they came upon a shouting crowd leaping this wayand that to avoid being bowled over by three toubob boys asthey raced and dove after a squealing, filthy swine that looked

shiny with grease. Kunta couldn't believe his eyes. As iflightning had struck him, Kunta then glimpsed two black menwho were not from the big canoe--a Man- dinka and a Serere,there was no doubt. He jerked his head around to stare asthey walked quietly behind a toubob. He and his matesweren't alone after all in this terrible land! And if these menhad been allowed to live, perhaps they too would be sparedfrom the cooking cauldron. Kunta wanted to rush over andembrace them; but he saw their expressionless faces and thefear in their downcast eyes. And then his nose picked up theirsmell; there was something wrong with it. His mind reeled; hecouldn't comprehend how black men would docilely followbehind a tou- bob who wasn't watching them or even carryinga weapon, rather than try to run away--or kill him. He didn'thave time to think about it further, for sudjenly they foundthemselves at the open door of a large, square house ofbaked mud bricks in oblong shapes with iron bars set into afew open spaces along the sides. The chained men werewhipped inside the wide door by the toubob guarding it, theninto a large room. Kunta's feet Felt cool on the floor of hard-packed earth. In the dim light that came through the two iron-barred openings, his blinking eyes picked out the forms of fiveblack men huddled long one wall. They didn't so much as lifttheir heads as the toubob locked the wrists and ankles ofKunta and his mates in thick iron cuffs attached to shortchains that were bolted to the walls. Along with the others,Kunta then huddled down himself, with his chin against hisclasped knees, his mind dazed and reeling with all that he hadseen and heard and smelled since they had gotten off the

great canoe. After a little while, another black man entered.Without looking at anyone, he put down some tins of waterand food before each man and quickly left. Kunta wasn'thungry, but his throat was so dry that finally he couldn't stophimself from sipping a small amount of the water; it tastedstrange. Numbly he watched through one of the iron-barredspaces as the daylight faded into darkness. The longer theysat there, the deeper Kunta sank into a kind of namelessterror. He felt that he would almost have preferred the darkhold of the big canoe, for at least he had come to know whatto expect next there. He shrank away whenever a toubobcame into the room during the night; their smell was strangeand overpowering. But he was used to the other smells--sweat, urine, dirty bodies, the stink as some chained manwent through the agony of relieving his bowels amid theothers' mingled praying and cursing and moaning and rattlingof their chains. Suddenly all the noises ceased when a toubobcame in carrying a light such as those that had been used onthe big canoe, and behind him, in the soft yellowish glow,another toubob who was striking with his whip some newblack one who was crying out in what sounded like the toubobtongue. That one was soon chained, and the two toubob left.Kunta and his mates remained still, hearing the newcomer'ssounds of suffering and pain. The dawn was near, Kuntasensed, when from somewhere there came into his head asclearly as when he had been in manhood training the high,sharp voice of the kin- tango: "A man is wise to study andlearn from the animals." It was so shocking that Kunta sat boltupright. Was it finally some message from Allah? What could

be the meaning of learning from the animals--here, now? Hewas himself, if anything, like an animal in a trap. His mindpictured animals he had seen in traps. But sometimes theanimals escaped before they were killed. Which ones werethey? Finally, the answer came to him. The animals he hadknown to escape from their traps were those that had notgone raging around within the trap until they were weakenedto exhaustion; those that escaped had made themselves waitquietly, conserving their strength until their captors came, andthe animal seized upon their carelessness to explode itsenergies in a desperate attack--or more wise- ly--a flighttoward freedom. Kunta felt intensely more alert. It was his firstpositive hope since he had plotted with the others to kill thetoubob on the big canoe. His mind fastened upon it now:escape. He must appear to the toubob to be defeated. Hemust not rage or fight yet; he must seem to have given up anyhope. But even if he managed to escape, where would herun? Where could he hide in this strange land? He knew thecountry around Juffure as he knew his own hut, but here heknew nothing whatever. He didn't even know if toubob hadforests, or if they did, whether he would find in them the signsthat a hunter would use. Kunta told himself that theseproblems would simply have to be met as they came. As thefirst streaks of dawn filtered through the barred endows, Kuntadropped fitfully off to sleep. But no sooner ad he closed hiseyes, it seemed, than he was awakened by the strange blackone bringing containers of water and food. Kunta's stomachwas clenched with hunger, but the food smelled sickening, andhe turned away. His tongue felt foul and swollen. He tried to

swallow the slime that was in his mouth, and his throat hurtwith the effort. He looked dully about him at his mates from thebig canoe; they all seemed unseeing, unhearing--drawn withinthemselves. Kunta turned his head to study the five who werein the room when they arrived. They wore ragged toubobclothing. Two of them were of the light brown sasso borro skincolor that the elders had said resulted from some toubobtaking a black woman. Then Kunta looked at the newcomerwho had been brought in during the night; he sat slumpedforward, with dried blood caked in his hair and staining thetoubob garment he wore, and one of his arms hung in anawkward way that told Kunta it had been broken. More timepassed, and finally Kunta fell asleep again--only to beawakened once more, this time much later, by the arrival ofanother meal. It was some kind of steaming gruel, and itsmelled even worse than the last thing they'd set in front ofhim. He shut his eyes not to see it, but when nearly all of hismates snatched up the containers and began wolfing the stuffdown, he figured it might not be so bad after all. If he was evergoing to escape from this place, thought Kunta, he wouldneed strength. He would force himself to eat a little bit--but justa little. Seizing the bowl, he brought it to his open mouth andgulped and swallowed intil the gruel was gone. Disgusted withhimself, he banged the bowl back down and began to gag, buthe forced it down again. He had to keep the food inside him ifhe was going to live. From that day on, three times a day,Kunta forced himself to eat the hated food. The black one whobrought it same once each day with a bucket, hoe, and shovelto clean up after them. And once each afternoon, two toubob

came to paint more of the stinging black liquid over the men'sworst open sores, and sprinkled the yellow powder over thesmaller sores. Kunta despised himself for the weakness thatmade him jerk and moan from the pain along with the others.Through the barred window, Kunta counted finally six daylightsand five nights. The first four nights, he had heard faintly fromsomewhere, not far away, the screams of women whom herecognized from the big canoe. He and his mates had had tosit there, burning with humiliation at being helpless to defendtheir women, let alone themselves. But it was even worsetonight, for there were no cries from the women. What newhorror had been visited upon them? Nearly every day, one ormore of the strange black men in toubob clothes would beshoved stumbling into the room and chained. Slumpedagainst the wall behind them, or curled down on the floor, theyalways showed signs of recent heatings, seeming not to knowwhere they were or to care what might happen to them next.Then, usually before another day had passed, someimportant-acting toubob would enter the room holding a ragover his nose, and always one of those recent prisoners wouldstart shrieking with terror as that toubob kicked and shoutedat him; then that black one would be taken away. Whenever hefelt that each bellyful of food had settled, Kunta would try tomake his mind stop thinking in an effort to sleep. Even a fewminutes of rest would blot out for that long a time thisseemingly unending horror, which for whatever reason was thedivine will of Allah. When Kunta couldn't sleep, which wasmost of the time, he would try to force his mind onto thingsother than his family or his village, for when he thought of them

he would soon be sobbing.

CHAPTER 41

Just after the seventh morning gruel, two toubob entered thebarred room with an armload of clothes. One frightened manafter another was unchained and shown how to put them on.One garment covered the waist and legs, a econd the upperbody. When Kunta put them on, his sores--which had begun toshow signs of healing--immediately started itching. In a littlewhile, he began to hear the sound of voices iutside; quickly itgrew louder and louder. Many toubob were gathering--talking,laughing--not far beyond the >arred window. Kunta and hismates sat in their toubob lothes gripped with terror at whatwas about to happen--whatever it might be. When the twotoubob returned, they quickly unchained and marched from theroom three of the five black ones who had originally beenthere. All of them acted somehow as if this had happened tothem enough times before that it no longer mattered. Then,within moments, there was a hange in the toubob sounds fromoutside; it grew much quieter, and then one toubob began toshout. Struggling rainly to understand what was being said,Kunta listened uncomprehendingly to the strange cries: "Fit asa fiddle! Plenty of spirit in this buck!" And at brief intervalsother toubob would interrupt with loud exclamations: "Threehundred and fifty!" "Four hundred!" "Five!" And the first toubobwould shout: "Let's hear six! Look at him! Works like a mule!"Kunta shuddered with fear, his face running with sweat, breathtight in his throat. When four toubob came into the room--the

first two plus two others--Kunta felt paralyzed. The new pair oftoubob stood just within the doorway holding short clubs inone hand and small metal objects in the other. The other twomoved along Kunta's side of the wall unlocking the iron cuffs.When anyone cried out or scuffled, he was struck with a short,thick, leather strap. Even so, when Kunta felt himself touched,he came up snarling with rage and terror. A blow against hishead made it seem to sxplode; he felt only dimly a jerking atthe chain on his cuffs. When his head began to clear, he wasthe first of a ehained line of six men stumbling through a widedoorway out into the daylight. "Just picked out of the trees!"The shouting one was standing on a low wooden platform withhundreds of other toubobs massed before him. As they gapedand gestured, Kunta's nose recoiled from the thickness oftheir stink. He glimpsed a few black ones among the toubob,but their faces seemed to be seeing nothing. Two of themwere holding in chains two of the black ones who had justbeen brought from the barred room. Now the shouting onebegan striding rapidly down the line of Kunta and hiscompanions, his eyes appraising them from head to foot.Then he walked back up the line, thrusting the butt of his whipagainst their chests and bellies, all the while making hisstrange cries: "Bright as monkeys! Can be trained foranything!" Then back at the end of the line, he prodded Kuntaroughly toward the raised platform. But Kunta couldn't move,except to tremble; it was as if his senses had deserted him.The whip's butt seared across the scabbing crust of hisulcerated buttocks; nearly collapsing under the pain, Kuntastumbled forward, and the toubob clicked the free end of his

chain into an iron thing. "Top prime--young and supple!" thetoubob shouted. Kunta was already so numb with terror thathe hardly noticed as the toubob crowd moved in more closelyaround him. Then, with short sticks and whip butts, they werepushing apart his compressed lips to expose his clenchedteeth, and with their bare hands prodding him all over--underhis armpits, on his back, his chest, his genitals. Then some ofthose who had been inspecting Kunta began to step back andmake strange cries. "Three hundred dollars!... three fifty!" Theshouting toubob laughed scornfully. "Five hundred!... six!" Hesounded angry. "This is a choice young niggeri Do I hearseven fifty?" "Seven fifty!" came a shout. He repeated the cryseveral times, then shouted "Eight!" until someone in thecrowd shouted it back. And then, before he had a chance tospeak again, someone else shouted, "Eight fifty!" No othercalls came. The shouting toubob unlocked Kunta's chain andjerked him toward a toubob who came stepping forward.Kunta felt an impulse to make his move right then, but he knewhe would never make it--and any. way, he couldn't seem tomove his legs. He saw a black one moving forward behind thetoubob to whom the shouter had handed his chain. Kunta'seyes entreated this black one, who had distinctly Woloffeatures, My Brother, you come from my country.... But theblack one seemed not even to see Kunta as, jerking hard onthe chain so that Kunta came stumbling after him, they beganmoving through the crowd. Some of the younger touboblaughed, jeered, and poked at Kunta with sticks as theypassed, but finally they left them behind and the black onestopped at a large box sitting up off the ground on four wheels

behind one of those enormous donkey like animals he hadseen on his way here from the big canoe. With an angrysound, the black one grasped Kunta around the hips andboosted him up over the side and onto the floor of the box,where he crumpled into a heap, hearing the free end of hischain click again into something beneath a raised seat at thefront end of the box behind the animal. Two large sacks ofwhat smelled like some kind of grain were piled near whereKunta lay. His eyes were shut tight; he felt as if he neverwanted to see anything again-especially this hated blackslatee. After what seemed a very long time, Kunta's nose toldhim that the toubob had returned. The toubob said something,and then he and the black one climbed onto the front seat,which squeaked under their weight. The black one made aquick sound and flicked a leather thong across the animal'sback; instantly it began pulling the rolling box ahead. Kuntawas so dazed that for a while he didn't even hear the chainlocked to his ankle cuff rattling against the floor of the box. Hehad no idea how far they had traveled when his next clearthought came, and he slit his eyes open far enough to studythe chain at close range. Yes, it was smaller than the one thathad bound him on the big canoe; if he collected his strengthand sprang, would this one tear loose from the box? Kuntaraised his eyes carefully to see the backs of the pair who satahead, the toubob sitting stiffly at one end of the plank seat,the black one slouched at the other end. They both sat staringahead as if they were unaware that they were sharing thesame seat. Beneath it--somewhere in shadow--the chainseemed to be securely fastened; he decided that it was not

yet time to jump. The odor of the grain sacks alongside himwas overpowering, but he could also smell the toubob and hisblack driver--and soon he smelled some other black people,quite nearby. Without making a sound, Kunta inched hisaching body upward against the rough side of the box, but hewas afraid to lift his head over the side, and didn't see them.As he lay back down, the toubob turned his head around, andtheir eyes met. Kunta felt frozen and weak with fear, but thetoubob showed no expression and turned his back again amoment later. Emboldened by the toubob's indifference, hesat up again--this time a little farther--when he heard a singingsound in the distance gradually growing louder. Not far aheadof them he saw a toubob seated on the back of anotheranimal like the one pulling the rolling box. The toubob held acoiled whip, and a chain from the animal was linked to thewrist cuffs of about twenty blacks--or most of them were black,some brown--walking in a line ahead of him. Kunta blinkedand squinted to see better. Except for two fully clothed women,they were all men and all bare from the waist up, and theywere singing with deep mournfulness. He listened verycarefully to the words, but they made 'no sense whatever tohim. As the rolling box slowly passed them, neither the blacksnor the toubob so much as glanced in their direction, thoughthey were close enough to touch. Most of their backs, Kuntasaw, were crisscrossed with whip scars, some of them fresh,and he guessed at some of their tribes: Foulah, Yoruba,Mauretanian, Wolof, Mandinka. Of those he was more certainthan of the others, most of whom had had the misfortune tohave toubob for fathers. Beyond the blacks, as far as Kunta's

runny eyes would let him see, there stretched vast fields ofcrops growing in different colors. Alongside the road was afield planted with what he recognized as maize. Just as it wasback in Juffure after the harvest, the stalks were brown andstripped of ears. Soon afterward, the toubob leaned over, tooksome bread and some kind of meat out of a sack beneath theseat, broke off a piece of each, and set them on the seatbetween him and the black one, who picked them up with a tipof his hat and began to eat. After a few moments the blackone turned in his seat, took a long look at Kunta, who waswatching intently, and offered him a chunk of bread. He couldsmell it from where he lay, and the fragrance made his mouthwater, but he turned his head away. The black one shruggedand popped it into his own mouth. Trying not to think about hishunger, Kunta looked out over the side of the box and saw, atthe far end of a field, what appeared to be a small cluster ofpeople bent over, seemingly at work. He thought they must beblack, but they were too far away to be sure. He sniffed the air,trying to pick up their scent, but couldn't. As the sun wassetting, the box passed another like it, going in the oppositedirection, with a toubob at the reins and three first-kafo blackchildren riding behind him. Trudging in chains behind the boxwere seven adult blacks, four men wearing ragged clothesand three women in coarse gowns. Kunta wondered whythese were not also singing; then he saw the deep despair ontheir faces as they flashed past. He wondered where toubobwas taking them. As the dusk deepened, small black batsbegan squeaking and darting jerkily here and there, just asthey did in Af- rica. Kunta heard the toubob say something to

the black one, and before much longer the box turned off ontoa small road. Kunta sat up and soon, in the distance, saw alarge white house through the trees. His stomach clutched up:What in the name of Allah was to happen now? Was it herethat he was coming to be eaten? He slumped back down inthe box and lay as if he were lifeless.

CHAPTER 42

As the box rolled closer and closer to the house, Kunta beganto smell--and then hear--more black people. Raising himselfup on his elbows, he could just make out three figures in theearly dusk as they approached the wagon. The largest amongthem was swinging one of those small flames Kunta hadbecome familiar with when the toubob had come down intothe dark hold of the big canoe; only this one was enclosed insomething clear and shiny rather than in metal. He had neverseen anything like it before; it looked hard, but you could seethrough it as if it weren't there. He didn't have the chance tostudy it more closely, though, for the three blacks quicklystepped to one side as a new toubob strode past them andup to the box, which promptly stopped beside him. The twotoubob greeted one another, and then one of the blacks heldup the flame so that the toubob in the box could see better ashe climbed down to join the other one. They clasped handswarmly and then walked off together toward the house. Hopesurged in Kunta. Would the black ones free him now? But heno sooner thought of it than the flame lit their faces as theystood looking at him over the sides of the wagon; they were

laughing at him. What kind of blacks were these who lookeddown upon their own kind and worked as goats for thetoubob? Where had they come from? They looked as Africanslooked, but clearly they were not of Africa. Then the one whohad driven the rolling box clucked at the animal and snappedthe thongs and the box moved ahead. The other blackswalked alongside, still laughing, until it stopped again.Climbing down, the driver walked back and in the light of theflame jerked roughly at Kunta's chain, making threateningsounds as he unlocked it under the seat, and then gestured forKunta to get out. Kunta fought down the impulse to leap for thethroats of the four blacks. The odds were too high; his chancewould come later. Every muscle in his body seemed to bescreaming as he forced himself onto his knees and began tocrab backward in the box. When he took too long to suit them,two of the blacks grabbed Kunta, hoisted him roughly over theside, and half dropped him onto the ground. A moment laterthe driver had clicked the free end of Kunta's chain around athick pole. As he lay there, flooded with pain, fear, and hatred,one of the blacks set before him two tin containers. In the lightof the flame, Kunta could see that one was nearly filled withwater, and the other held some strange-looking, strange-smelling food. Even so, the saliva ran in Kunta's mouth anddown in his throat; but he didn't permit even his eyes to move.The black ones watching him laughed. Holding up the flame,the driver went over to the thick pole and lunged heavilyagainst the locked chain, clearly for Kunta to see that it couldnot be broken. Then he pointed with his foot at the water andthe food, making threatening sounds, and the others laughed

again as the four of them walked away. Kunta lay there on theground in the darkness, waiting for sleep to claim them,wherever they had gone. In his mind, he saw himself rearingup and surging desperately again and again against thechain, with all of the strength that he could muster, until it brokeand he could escape to. Just then he smelted a dogapproaching him, and heard it curiously sniffing. Somehow hesensed that it was not his enemy. But then, as the dog camecloser, he heard the sound of chewing and the click of teeth onthe tin pan. Though he wouldn't have eaten it himself, Kuntaleaped up in rage, snarling like a leopard. The dog racedaway, and from a short distance started barking. Within amoment, a door had squeaked open nearby and someonewas running toward him with a flame. It was the driver, andKunta sat staring with cold fury as the driver anxiouslyexamined the chain around the base of the post, and nextwhere the chain was attached to the iron cuff around Kunta'sankle. In the dim yellow light, Kunta saw the driver'sexpression of satisfaction at the empty food plate. With ahoarse grunt, he walked back to his hut, leaving Kunta in thedarkness wishing that he could fasten his hands around thethroat of the dog. After a while, Kunta groped around for thecontainer of water and drank some of the contents, but it didn'tmake him feel any better; in fact, the strength felt drained fromhis body; it seemed as if he were only a shell. Abandoning theidea of breaking the chain for now, anyway he felt as if Allahhad turned His back but why? What thing so terrible had heever done? He tried to review everything of any significancethat he had ever done right or wrong up to the morning when

he was cutting a piece of wood to make himself a drum andthen, too late, heard a twig snap. It seemed to him that everytime in his life when he had been punished, it had beenbecause of carelessness and inattention. Kunta lay listeningto the crickets, the whir of night birds, and the barking ofdistant dogs and once to the sudden squeak of a mouse, thenthe crunch of its bones breaking in the mouth of an animal thathad killed it Every now and then he would tense up with theurge to run, but he knew that even if he were able to rip loosehis chain, its rattling would swiftly awaken someone in the hutsnearby. He lay this way--with no thought of sleeping--until thefirst streaks of dawn. Struggling as well as his aching limbswould let him into a kneeling position, he began his subaprayer. As he was pressing his forehead against the earth,however, he lost his balance and almost fell over on his side; itmade him furious to realize how weak he had become. As theeastern sky slowly brightened, Kunta reached again for thewater container and drank what was left. Hardly had hefinished it when approaching footsteps alerted him to thereturn of the four black men. Hurriedly they hoisted Kunta backinto the rolling box, which was driven to the large white house,where the toubob was waiting to get onto the seat again. Andbefore he knew it they were back on the main road, headed inthe same direction as before. For a time in the clearing day,Kunta lay staring vacantly at the chain rattling across the floorof the box to where it was locked under the seat. Then, for awhile, he let his eyes bore with hatred at the backs of thetoubob and the black ahead. He wished he could kill them. Hemade himself remember that if he was to survive, having

survived so much until now, he must keep his sensescollected, he must keep control of himself, he must makehimself wait, he must not expend his energy until he knew thatit was the right time. It was around midmorning when Kuntaheard what he knew instantly was a blacksmith pounding onmetal; lifting his head, Kunta strained his eyes to see andfinally located the sound somewhere beyond a thick growth oftrees they were passing. He saw that much forest had beenfreshly cut, and stumps grubbed up, and in some places, asthe rolling box lurched along, Kunta saw and smelled grayishsmoke rising from where dry brush was being burned. Hewondered if the toubob were thus fertilizing the earth for thenext season's crops, as it was done in Juffure. Next, in thedistance ahead, he saw a small square hut beside the road. Itseemed to be made of logs, and in a cleared plot of earthbefore it, a toubob man was plodding behind a brown bullock.The toubob's hands were pressing down hard against thecurving handles of some large thing pulled by the bullock thatwas tearing through the earth. As they came nearer, Kuntasaw two more toubob--pale and thin--squatting on theirhaunches under a tree, three equally skinny swine wererooting around them, and some chickens were pecking forfood. In the hut's doorway stood a she toubob with red hair.Then, dashing past her, came three small toubob shouting andwaving toward the rolling box. Catching sight of Kunta, theyshrieked with laughter and pointed; he stared at them as ifthey were hyena cubs. They ran alongside the wagon for agood way before turning back, and Kunta lay realizing that hehad seen with his own eyes an actual family of toubob. Twice

more, far from the road, Kunta saw large white toubob housessimilar to the one where the wagon had stopped the nightbefore. Each was the height of two houses, as if one were ontop of another; each had in front of it a row of three or fourhuge white poles as big around--and almost as tall--as trees;nearby each was a group of small, dark huts where Kuntaguessed the blacks lived; and surrounding each was avastness of cotton fields, all of them recently harvested,necked here and there with a tuft of white. Somewherebetween these two great houses, the rolling box overtook astrange pair of people walking along the side of the road. Atfirst Kunta thought they were black, but as the wagon camecloser he saw that their skin was reddish-brown, and they hadlong black hair tied to hang down their backs like a rope, andthey walked quickly, lightly in shoes and loincloths thatseemed to be made of hide, and they carried, bows andarrows. They weren't tou- bob, yet they weren't of Africa either;they even smelted different. What sort of people were they?Neither one seemed to notice the rolling box as it went by,enveloping them in dust As the sun began to set, Kunta turnedhis face toward the east, and by the time he had finished hissilent evening prayer to Allah, dusk was gathering. He wasgetting so weak, after two days without accepting any of thefood he had been offered, that he had to lie down limply in thebottom of the rolling box, hardly caring any more about whatwas happening around him. But Kunta managed to raisehimself up again and look over the side when the box stoppeda little later. Climbing down, the driver hung one of those lightsagainst the side of the box, got back in his seat, and resumed

the trip. After a long while the toubob spoke briefly, and theblack one replied; it was the first time since they had startedout that day that the two of them had exchanged a sound.Again the box stopped, and the driver got out and tossedsome kind of coverlet to Kunta, who ignored it. Climbing backup onto the seat, the driver and the toubob pulled coverletsover themselves and set out once again. Though he was soonshivering, Kunta refused to reach for the coverlet and draw itover him, not wishing to give them that satisfaction. They offerme cover, he thought, yet they keep me in chains; and my ownpeople not only stand by and let it happen but actually do thetoubob's dirty business for him. Kunta knew only that he mustescape from this dreadful place--or die in the attempt. Hedared not dream that he would ever see Juffure again, but ifhe did, he vowed that all of The Gambia would learn what theland of toubob was really like. Kunta was nearly numb withcold when the rolling box turned suddenly off the main roadand onto a bumpier and smaller one. Again he forced hisaching body upward far enough to squint into the darkness--and there in the distance he saw the ghostly whiteness ofanother of the big houses. As on the previous night, the fear ofwhat would befall him now coursed through Kunta as theypulled up in front of the house--but he couldn't even smell anysigns of the toubob or black ones he expected to greet them.When the box finally stopped, the toubob on the seat ahead ofhim dropped to the ground with a grunt, bent and squatteddown several times to un cramp his muscles, then spokebriefly to the driver with a gesture back at Kunta, and thenwalked away toward the big house. Still no other blacks had

appeared, and as the rolling box creaked on ahead towardthe nearby huts, Kunta lay in the back feigning indifference.But he was tense in every fiber, his pains forgotten. Hisnostrils detected the smell of other blacks nearby; yet no onecame outside. His hopes rose further. Stopping the box nearthe huts, the black one climbed heavily and clumsily to theground and trudged over to the nearest hut, the flame bobbingin his hand. As he pushed the door open, Kunta watched andwaited, ready to spring, for him to go inside; but instead heturned and came back to the box. Putting his hands under theseat, he un clicked Kunta's chain and held the loose end inone hand as he walked around to the back of the box. Yetsomething made Kunta still hold back. The black one jerkedthe chain sharply and barked something roughly to Kunta. Asthe black one stood watching carefully, Kunta struggled ontoall fours--trying to look even weaker than he felt--and begancrawling backward as slowly and clumsily as possible. As hehad hoped, the black one lost patience, leaned close, andwith one powerful arm, levered Kunta up and over the end ofthe wagon, and his upraised knee helped to break Kunta's fallto the ground. At that instant, Kunta exploded upward--hishands clamping around the driver's big throat like the bone-cracking jaws of a hyena. The flame dropped to the ground asthe black one lurched backward with a hoarse cry; then hecame storming back upright with his big hands pounding,tearing, and clawing at Kunta's face and forearms. Butsomehow Kunta found the strength to grip the throat eventighter as he twisted his body desperately to avoid the driver'sclub like blows with thrashing fists, feet, and knees. Kunta's

grip would not be broken until the black one finally stumbledbackward and then down, with a deep gurgling sound, andthen went limp. Springing up, fearing above all anotherbarking dog, Kunta slipped away like a shadow from the fallendriver and the overturned flame. He ran bent low, legscrashing through frosted stalks of cotton. His muscles, so longunused, screamed with pain, but the cold, rushing air felt goodupon his skin, and he had to stop himself from whooping outloud with the pleasure of feeling so wildly free.

CHAPTER 43

The thorny brambles and vines of the brush at the edge of theforest seemed to reach out and tear at Kunta's legs. Rippingthem aside with his hands, he plunged on--stumbling andfalling, picking himself up again--deeper and deeper into theforest. Or so he thought, until the trees began to thin and heburst suddenly into more low brush. Ahead of him was anotherwide cotton field and beyond it yet another big white housewith small dark huts beside it. With shock and panic, Kuntasprang back into the wood, realizing that all he had done wascross a narrow stretch of forest that separated two greattoubob farms. Crouching behind a tree, he listened to thepounding of his heart and head, and began to feel a stingingin his hands, arms, and feet. Glancing down in the brightmoonlight, he saw that they were cut and bleeding from thethorns. But what alarmed him more was that the moon wasalready down in the sky; it would soon be dawn. He knew thatwhatever he was going to do, he had little time to decide.

Stumbling back into motion, Kunta knew after only a little whilethat his muscles would not carry him much farther. He mustretreat into the thickest part of the forest he could find andhide there. So he went clawing his way back, sometimes onall fours, his feet and arms and legs tangling in the vines, untilat last he found himself in a dense grove of trees. Though hislungs were threatening to burst, Kunta considered climbingone of them, but the softness of the thick carpeting of leavesunder his feet told him that many of the trees' leaves had fallenoff, which could make him easily seen, so that his bestconcealment would be on the ground. Crawling again, hesettled finally--just as the sky began to lighten--in a place ofdeep undergrowth. Except for the wheeze of his own breath,everything was very still, and it reminded him of his long, lonelyvigils guarding the groundnut fields with his faithful wuolo dog.It was just then that he heard in the distance the deep bayingof a dog. Perhaps he had heard it only in his mind, he thought,snapping to alertness and straining his ears. But it cameagain--only now there were two of them. He didn't have muchtime. Kneeling toward the east, he prayed to Allah fordeliverance, and just as he finished, the deep-throated bayingcame again, closer this time. Kunta decided it was best tostay hidden where he was, but when he heard the howlingonce again--closer still--just a few minutes later, it seemed thatthey knew exactly where he was and his limbs wouldn't let himremain there a moment longer. Into the underbrush he crawledagain, hunting for a deeper, even more secreted place. Everyinch among the brambles raking at his hands and knees wastorture, but with every cry from the dogs he scrambled faster

and faster. Yet the barking grew ever louder and closer, andKunta was sure that he could hear now the shouting of menbehind the dogs. He wasn't moving fast enough; springing up,he began to run--stumbling through the brambles--as quicklyand quietly as his exhaustion would permit. Almostimmediately he heard an explosion; the shock buckled hisknees and sent him sprawling into a tangle of briars. The dogswere snarling at the very edge of the thicket now. Quivering interror, Kunta could even smell them. A moment later they werethrashing through the underbrush straight for him. Kunta madeit up onto his knees just as the two dogs came crashingthrough the brush and leaped on him, yowling and slaveringand snapping as they knocked him over, then sprangbackward to lunge at him again. Snarling himself, Kuntafought wildly to fend them off, using his hands like claws whilehe tried to crab backward away from them. Then be heard themen shouting from the edge of the brush, and again there wasan explosion, this time much louder. As the dogs relentedsomewhat in their attack, Kunta heard the men cursing andslashing through the brush with knives. Behind the growlingdogs, he saw first the black one he had choked. He held ahuge knife in one hand, a short club and a rope in the other,and he looked murderous. Kunta lay bleeding on his back,jaws clenched to keep from screaming, expecting to bechopped into bits. Then Kunta saw the toubob who hadbrought him here appear behind the black one, his facereddish and sweating. Kunta waited for the flash and theexplosion that he had learned on the big canoe could comefrom the fire stick that a second toubob--one he hadn't seen

before--pointed at him now. But it was the black one who nowrushed forward furiously, raising his club, when the chieftoubob shouted. The black one halted, and the toubobshouted at the dogs, who drew farther back. Then the toubobsaid something to the black one, who now moved forwarduncoiling his rope. A heavy blow to Kunta's head sent him intoa merciful numbing shock. He was dimly aware of beingtrussed up so tightly that the rope bit into his already bleedingskin; then of being half lifted from among the brambles andmade to walk. Whenever he lost his balance and fell down, awhip seared across his back. When they finally reached theforest's edge, Kunta saw three of the donkey- like animals tiednear several trees. As they approached the animals, he triedto bolt away again, but a vicious yank on the free end of therope sent him tumbling down--and earned him a kick in theribs. Now the second toubob, holding the rope, moved aheadof Kunta, jerking him stumbling toward a tree near where theanimals were tied. The rope's free end was thrown over alower limb, and the black one hauled on it until Kunta's feetbarely touched the ground. The chief toubob's whistling whipbegan to lash against Kunta's back. He writhed under thepain, refusing to make any sound, but each blow felt as if ithad torn him in half. Finally he began screaming, but thelashing went on. Kunta was hardly conscious when at last thewhip stopped falling. He sensed vaguely that he was beinglowered and crumpling onto the ground; then that he wasbeing lifted and draped across the back of one of the animals;then he was aware of movement. The next thing Kunta knew--he had no idea how much time had passed--he was lying

spreadeagled on his back in some kind of hut. A chain, henoticed, was attached to an iron cuff on each wrist and ankle,and the four chains were fixed to the base of four poles at thecorners of the hut. Even the slightest movement brought suchexcruciating pain that for a long while he lay completely still,his face wet with sweat and his breath coming in quick,shallow gasps. Without moving, he could see that a small,square, open space above him was admitting daylight. Out ofthe corner Of his eye, he could see a recessed place in thewall, and within it a mostly burned log and some ashes. On theother side of the hut, he saw a wide, flat, lumpy thing of clothon the floor, with corn shucks showing through its holes; heguessed it might be used as a bed. As dusk showed throughthe open space above him, Kunta heard--from very nearby--the blowing of a strange- sounding horn. And before muchmore time had passed, he heard the voices of what hesmelled were many black people passing near where he was.Then he smelled food cooking. As his spasms of hungermingled with the pounding in his head and the stabbing painsin his back and his thorn-cut arms and legs, he beratedhimself for not having waited for a better time to escape, as atrapped animal would have done. He should have firstobserved and learned more of this strange place and itspagan people. Kunta's eyes were closed when the hut's doorsqueaked open; he could smell the black one he had choked,who had helped to catch him. He lay still and pretended to beasleep--until a vicious kick in the ribs shot his eyes wide open.With a curse, the black one set something down just in front ofKunta's face, dropped a covering over his body, and went

back out, slamming the door behind him. The smell of the foodbefore him hurt Kunta's stomach almost as much as the painin his back. Finally, he opened his eyes. There was some kindof mush and some kind of meat piled upon a flat, round tin,and a squat, round gourd of water beside it. Hisspreadeagled wrists made it impossible to pick them up, butboth were close enough for him to reach with his mouth. Justas he was about to take a bite, Kunta smelled that the meatwas the filthy swine, and the bile from his stomach camespewing up and onto the tin plate. Through the night, he laydrifting into and out of sleep and wondering about these blackones who looked like Africans but ate pig. It meant that theywere all strangers--or traitors--to Allah. Silently he beggedAllah's forgiveness in advance if his lips would ever touch anyswine without his realizing it, or even if he ever ate from anyplate that any swine meat had ever been on. Soon after thedawn showed again through the square opening, Kunta heardthe strange horn blow once more; then came the smell of foodcooking, and the voices of the black ones hurrying back andforth. Then the man he despised returned, bringing new foodand water. But when he saw that Kunta had vomited over theuntouched plate that was already there, he bent down with astring of angry curses and rubbed the contents into Kunta'sface. Then he set the new food and water before him, and left.Kunta told himself that he would choke the food down later; hewas too sick even to think about it now. After a little while, heheard the door open again; this time he smelted the stench oftoubob. Kunta kept his eyes clamped shut, but when thetoubob muttered angrily, he feared another kick and opened

them. He found himself staring up at the hated face of thetoubob who had brought him here; it was flushed with rage.The toubob made cursing sounds and told him withthreatening gestures that if he didn't eat the food, he would getmore beating. Then the toubob left. Kunta managed to movehis left hand far enough for the fingers to scratch up a smallmound of the hard dirt where the toubob's foot had been.Pulling the dirt closer, Kunta pressed his eyes shut andappealed to the spirits of evil to curse forever the womb of thetoubob and his family.

CHAPTER 44

Kunta had counted four days and three nights in the hut. Andeach night he had lain listening to the singing from the hutsnearby--and feeling more African than he ever felt in his ownvillage. What kind of black people they must be, he thought, tospend their time singing here in the land of the toubob. Hewondered how many of these strange black ones there werein all of toubob land, those who didn't seem to know or carewho or what they were. Kunta felt a special closeness to thesun each time it rose. He recalled what an old man who hadbeen an alcala had said down in the darkness of the bigcanoe: "Each day's new sun will remind us that it rose in ourAfrica, which is the navel of the earth." Although he wasspreadeagled by four chains, he had practiced until he hadlearned a way to inch forward or backward on his back andbuttocks to study more closely the small but thick iron rings,like bracelets, that fastened the chains to the four poles at the

hut's corners. The poles were about the size of his lower leg,and he knew there was no hope of his ever breaking one, orof pulling one from the hard-packed earth floor, for the upperends went up through the hut's roof. With his eyes and then hisfingers, Kunta carefully examined the small holes in the thickmetal rings; he had seen his captors insert a narrow metalthing into these holes and turn them, making a click sound.When he shook one of the rings, it made the chain rattle--loudenough for someone to hear--so he gave that up. He triedputting one of the rings in his mouth and biting it as hard as hecould; finally one of his teeth cracked, lancing pains throughhis head. Seeking some dirt preferable to that of the floor inorder to make a fetish to the spirits, Kunta scraped out withhis fingers a piece of the reddish, hardened mud chinkingbetween the logs. Seeing short, black bristles within the mud,he inspected one curiously; when he realized that it was a hairfrom the filthy swine, he flung it away--along with the dirt--andwiped off the hand that had held it. On the fifth morning, theblack one entered shortly after the wake-up horn had blown,and Kunta tautened when he saw that along with his usualshort, flat club, the man carried two thick iron cuffs. Bendingdown, he locked each of Kunta's ankles within the cuffs, whichwere connected by a heavy chain. Only then did he unlock thefour chains, one by one, that had kept Klinta spreadeagled.Free to move at last, Kunta couldn't stop himself fromspringing upward--only to be struck down by the black one'swaiting fist. As Kunta began pushing himself back upward, abooted foot dug viciously into his ribs. Stumbling upward onceagain in agony and rage, he was knocked down even harder.

He hadn't realized how much the days of lying on his back hadsapped his strength, and he lay now fighting for breath as theblack one stood over him with an expression that told Kuntahe would keep knocking him down until he learned who wasthe master. Now the black one gestured roughly for Kunta toget up. When he couldn't raise his body even onto his handsand knees, the black one jerked him to his feet with a curseand shoved him forward, the ankle cuffs forcing Kunta tohobble awkwardly. The full force of daylight in the doorwayblinded him at first, but after a moment he began to make outa line of black people walking hastily nearby in single file,followed closely by a toubob riding a "boss," as he had heardthat strange animal called. Kunta knew from his smell that hewas the one who had held the rope after Kunta had beentrapped by the dogs. There were about ten or twelve blacks--the women with red or white rags tied on their heads, most ofthe men and children wearing ragged straw hats; but a fewwere bareheaded, and as far as he could see, none of themwore a single sap hie charm around their necks or arms. Butsome of the men carried what seemed to be long, stoutknives, and the line seemed to be heading in the direction ofthe great fields. He thought that it must have been they whomhe had heard at night doing all that singing. He felt nothing butcontempt for them. Turning his blinking gaze, Kunta countedthe huts they had come from: There were ten, including hisown--all very small, like his, and they didn't have the stout lookof the mud huts of his village, with their roofs of sweet-smellingthatch. They were arranged in rows of five each--positioned,Kunta noticed, so that whatever went on among the blacks

living there could be seen from the big white house. Abruptlythe black one began jabbing at Kunta's chest with his finger,then exclaiming, "You--you Toby!" Kunta didn't understand,and his face showed it, so the black one kept jabbing him andsaying the same thing over and over. Slowly it dawned onKunta that the black one was attempting to make himunderstand something he was saying in the strange toubobtongue. When Kunta continued to stare at him dumbly, theblack one began jabbing at his own chest. "Me Samson!" heexclaimed. "Samson!" He moved his jabbing finger again toKunta. "You To-by! Toby. Massa say you name Toby!" Whenwhat he meant began to sink in, it took all of Kunta's self-control to grip his flooding rage without any facial sign of theslightest understanding. He wanted to shout "I am Kunta Kinte,first son of Omoro, who is the son of the holy man KairabaKunta Kinte!" Losing patience with Kunta's apparent stupidity,the black one cursed, shrugged his shoulders, and led himhobbling into another hut, where he gestured for Kunta towash himself in a large, wide tin tub that held some water. Theblack one threw into the water a rag and a brown chunk ofwhat Kunta's nose told him was something like the soap thatJuffure women made of hot melted fat mixed with the lye ofwater dripped through wood ashes. The black one watched,scowling, as Kunta took advantage of the opportunity to washhimself. When he was through, the black one tossed to himsome different toubob garments to cover his chest and legs,then a frayed hat of yellowish straw such as the others wore.How would these pagans fare under the heat of Africa's sun,Kunta wondered. The black one led him next to still another

hut. Inside, an old woman irritably banged down before Kuntaa flat tin of food. He gulped down the thick gruel, and a breadresembling munko cake, and washed it down with some hotbrown beefy-tasting broth from a gourd cup. Next they went toa narrow, cramped hut whose smell told of its use in advance.Pretending to pull down his lower garment, the black onehunched over a large hole cut into a plank seat and gruntedheavily as if he were relieving himself. A small pile of corncobslay in one corner, and Kunta didn't know what to make of them.But he guessed that the black one's purpose was todemonstrate the toubob's ways--of which he wished to learnall that he could, the better to escape. As the black one ledhim past the next few huts, they went by an old man seated insome strange chair; it was rocking slowly back and forth as hewove dried cornshueks into what Kunta guessed was abroom. Without looking up, the old man cast toward him a notunkindly glance, but Kunta ignored it coldly. Picking up one ofthe long, stout knives that Kunta had seen the others carrying,the black one motioned with his head toward the distant field,grunting and gesturing for Kunta to follow him. Hobbling alongin the iron cuffs--which were chafing his ankles--Kunta couldsee in the field ahead that the females and the younger blackswere bending up and down, gathering and piling driedcornstalks behind the older men in front of them, who slasheddown the stalks with swishing blows of their long knives. Mostof the men's backs were bared and glistening with sweat. Hiseyes searched for any of the branding-iron marks such as hisback bore--but he saw only the " " that had been left by whips.The toubob r(v<' -auaci.. "boss," exchanged words briefly with

the black one then fixed a threatening stare on Kunta as theblack one gest urea for his attention. Slashing down about adozen cornstalks, the bIacK one turned, bent, and mademotions for Kunta to pick them up and pile them as the otherswere doing. The touboo jerked his horse closer alongsideKunta, his whip cocked and the scowl on his face making hisintent clear if Kunta should refuse to obey. Enraged at hishelplessness, Kunta bent down and picked up two of thecornstalks. Hesitating, he heard the black one's knife swishingahead. Bending over again, he picked up two morecornstalks, and two more. He could feel the stares of otherblack ones upon him from adjacent rows, and could see thefeet of the toubob's horse. He could feel the relief of the otherblacks, and at last the horse's feet moved away. Withoutraising his head, Kunta saw that the toubob rode this way orthat to wherever he saw someone who wasn't working swiftlyenough to please him, and then with an angry shout, his lashwould go cracking down across a back. Off in the distance,Kunta saw that there was a road. On it, a few times during thehot afternoon, through the sweat pouring down his foreheadand stinging in his eyes, he caught glances of a lone rider ona horse, and twice he saw a wagon being drawn. Turning hishead the other way, he could see the edge of the forest intowhich he had tried to escape. And from where he was pilingthe cornstalks now, he could see the forest's narrowness,which had helped him to get caught, because he had notrealized that narrowness before. After a while, Kunta had tostop glancing in that direction, for the urge to spring up andbound toward those trees was almost irresistible. Each step

he took, in any case, reminded him that he would never getfive steps across the field wearing those iron hobbles. As heworked through the afternoon, Kunta decided that before hetried his next escape, he must find some kind of weapon tofight dogs and men with. No servant of Allah should ever fail tofight if he is attacked, he reminded himself. If it was dogs ormen, wounded buffalo or hungry lions, no son of Omoro Kintewould ever entertain the thought of giving up. it was aftersundown when the horn sounded once again--this time in thedistance. As Kunta watched the other blacks hurrying into aline, he wished he could stop thinking of them as belonging tothe tribes they resembled, for they were but unworthy pagansnot fit to mingle with those who had come with him on the bigcanoe. But how stupid the toubob must be to have those ofFulani blood--even such poor specimens as these--picking upcornstalks instead of tending cattle; anyone knew that theFulani were born to tend cattle, that indeed Fulani and cattletalked together. This thought was interrupted as the toubob onhis "hoss" cracked the whip to direct Kunta to the end of theline. As he obeyed, the squat, heavy woman at the end of theline took several quick forward steps, trying to get as far aspossible from Kunta. He felt like spitting on her. As they beganto march--each hobbling step chafing at his ankles, which hadbeen rubbed raw and were beginning to seep blood--Kuntaheard some hounds barking far away. He shivered,remembering those that had tracked him and attacked him.Then his mind flashed a memory of bow his own wuolo haddied fighting the men who had captured him in Africa. Back inhis hut, Kunta kneeled and touched his forehead to the hard

dirt floor in the direction in which he knew the next sun wouldrise. He prayed for a long time to make up for the two prayershe had been unable to perform out in the field, which wouldcertainly have been interrupted by a lash across his back fromthe toubob who rode the "boss." After finishing his prayer,Kunta sat bolt upright and spoke softly for a while in the secretsira kango tongue, asking his ancestors to help him endureThen--pressing between his fingers a pair of cock's feathershe had managed to pick up without being noticed while"Samson" had led him around that morning--he wonderedwhen he would get the chance to steal a fresh egg. With thefeathers of the cock and some finely crushed fresh eggshell,he would be able to prepare a powerful fetish to the spirits,whom he would ask to bless the dust where his last footstepshad touched in his village. If that dust was blessed, hisfootprints would one day reappear in Juffure, where everyman's footprints were recognizable to his neighbor they wouldrejoice at this sign that Kunta Kinte was still alive and that hewould return safely to his village. Someday. For the thousandthtime, he relived the nightmare of his capture. If only thecracking twig that alerted him had snapped a single footstepearlier, he could have leaped and snatched up his spear.Tears of rage came welling up into Kunta's eyes. It seemed tohim that for moons without end, all that he had known wasbeing tracked and attacked and captured and chained. No!He would not allow himself to act this way. After all, he was aman now, seventeen rains of age, too old to weep and wallowin self-pity. Wiping away the tears, he crawled onto his thin,lumpy mattress of dried corn shucks and tried to go to sleep--

but all he could think of was the name "To-by" he had beengiven, and rage rose in him once more. Furiously, he kickedhis legs in frustration--but the movement only gouged the ironcuffs deeper into his ankles, which made him cry again.Would he ever grow up to be a man like Omoro? Hewondered if his father still thought of him; and if his mother hadgiven to Lamin, Suwadu, and Madi the love that had beentaken away from her when he was stolen. He thought of all ofJuffure, and of how he had never realized more than now howvery deeply he loved his village. As it had often been on thebig canoe, Kunta lay for half the night with scenes of Juffureflashing through his mind, until he made himself shut his eyesand finally sleep came.

CHAPTER 45

With each passing day, the hobbles on his ankles made itmore and more difficult and painful for Kunta to get around.But he kept on telling himself that the chances of gainingfreedom depended upon continuing to force himself to dowhatever was wanted of him, all behind a mask of completeblankness and stupidity. As he did so, his eyes, ears, andnose would miss nothing--no weapon he might use, no toubobweakness he might exploit--until finally his captors were lulledinto removing the cuffs. Then he would run away again. Soonafter the conch horn blew each morning, Kunta would limpoutside to watch as the strange black ones emerged fromtheir huts, the sleepiness still in their faces, and splashedthemselves with water from buckets drawn up in the well

nearby. Missing the sound of the village women's pestlesthumping the couscous for their families' morning meals, hewould enter the hut of the old cooking woman and bolt downwhatever she gave him--except for any filthy pork. As he ateeach morning, his eyes would search the hut for a possibleweapon he might take without being detected. But apart fromthe black utensils that hung on hooks above her fireplace,there were only the round, flat tin things upon which she gavehim what he ate with his fingers. He had seen her eating witha slender metal object that had three or four closely spacedpoints to stab the food with. He wondered what it was, andthought that although it was small it might be useful--if he couldever catch her eyes averted for a moment when the shinyobject was within reach. One morning, as he was eating hisgruel, watching as the cooking woman cut a piece of meatwith a knife he hadn't seen before and plotting what he woulddo with it if it were in his hands instead of hers, he heard apiercing squeal of agony from outside the hut. It was so closeto his thoughts that he nearly jumped from his seat. Hobblingoutside, he found the others already lined up for work-many ofthem still chewing the last bites of "breakfast," lest they get alashing for being late--while there on the ground beside themlay a swine thrashing about with blood pulsing from its cutthroat as two black men lifted it into a steaming pot of water,then withdrew it and scraped off the hair. The swine's skin wasthe color of a toubob, he noticed, as they suspended it by theheels, slit open its belly, and pulled out its insides. Kunta'snose stifled at the spreading smell of guts, and as he marchedoff with the others toward the fields, he had to suppress a

shudder of revulsion at the thought of having to live amongthese pagan eaters of such a filthy animal. There was frost onthe cornstalks every morning now, and a haziness hung lowover the fields until the heat of the climbing sun would burn itaway. Allah's powers never ceased to amaze Kunta--that evenin a place as distant as this toubob land was across the bigwater, Allah's sun and moon still rose and crossed the sky;though the sun was not so hot nor the moon so beautiful as inJuffure. It was only the people in this accursed place whoseemed not of Allah's doing. The toubob were inhuman, andas for the blacks, it was simply senseless to try to understandthem. When the sun reached the middle of the sky, again theconch horn blew, signaling another lineup for the arrival of awooden sled pulled by an animal similar to a horse, but moreresembling a huge donkey, which Kunta had overheard beingspoken of as a "mule." Walking beside the sled was the oldcooking woman, who proceeded to pass out flat cakes ofbread and a gourdful of some kind of stew to each person inthe line, who either stood or sat and gulped it down, thendrank some water dipped from a barrel that was also on thesled. Every day, Kunta warily smelled the stew before tastingit, to make sure he didn't put any swine meat into his mouth,but it usually contained only vegetables and no meat that hecould see or smell at all. He felt better about eating the bread,for he had seen some of the black women making corn intomeal by beating it in a mortar with a pestle of stone, about asit was done in Africa, although Binta's pestle was made ofwood. Some days they served foods Kunta knew of from hishome, such as ground nuts and kanjo--which was called

"okra"--and so-so, which was called "black-eyed peas." Andhe saw how much these black ones loved the large fruit thathe heard here being called "watermelon." But he saw thatAllah appeared to have denied these people the mangoes,the hearts of palm, the breadfruits, and so many of the otherdelicacies that grew almost anywhere one cared to look onthe vines and trees and bushes in Africa. Every now and thenthe toubob who had brought Kunta to this place--the one theycalled "massa"--rode out into the fields when they wereworking. In his whitish straw hat, as he spoke to the toubobfield boss, he gestured with a long, slender, plaited leatherswitch, and Kunta noticed that the toubob "oberseer" grinnedand shuffled almost as much as the blacks whenever he wasaround. Many such strange things happened each day, andKunta would sit thinking about them back in his hut while hewaited to find sleep. These black ones seemed to have noconcern in their lives beyond pleasing the toubob with hislashing whip. It sickened him to think how these black onesjumped about their work whenever they saw a toubob, andhow, if that toubob spoke a word to them, they rushed to dowhatever he told them to. Kunta couldn't fathom what hadhappened to so destroy their minds that they acted like goatsand monkeys. Perhaps it was because they had been born inthis place rather than in Africa, because the only homes theyhad ever known were the toubob's huts of logs glued togetherwith mud and swine bristles. These black ones had neverknown what it meant to sweat under the sun not for toubobmasters but for themselves and their own people. But nomatter how long he stayed among them, Kunta vowed never to

become like them, and each night his mind would goexploring again into ways to escape from this despised land.He couldn't keep from reviling himself almost nightly for hisprevious failure to get away. Playing back in his mind what ithad been like among the thorn bushes and the slavering dogs,he knew that he must have a better plan for the next time. Firsthe had to make himself a sap hie charm to insure safety andsuccess. Then he must either find or make some kind ofweapon. Even a sharpened stick could have speared throughthose dogs' bellies, he thought, and he could have been awayagain before the black one and the toubob had been able tocut their way through the underbrush to where they had foundhim fighting off the dogs. Finally, he must acquaint himself withthe surrounding countryside so that when he escaped again,he would know where to look for better hiding places. Thoughhe often lay awake half the night, restless with such thoughts,Kunta always awoke before the first crowing of the cocks,which always aroused the other fowl. The birds in this place,he noticed, merely twittered and sang--nothing like thedeafening squawks of great flocks of green parrots that hadopened the mornings in Juffure. There didn't seem to be anyparrots here, or monkeys either, which always began the dayat home by chattering angrily in the trees overhead, breakingoff sticks and hurling them to the ground at the peopleunderneath. Nor had Kunta seen any goats here--a fact hefound no less incredible than that these people kept swine inpens"--pigs" or "hogs," they called them--and even fed thefilthy things. But the squealing of the swine, it seemed toKunta, was no uglier than the language of the toubob who so

closely resembled them. He would have given anything to heareven a sentence of Mandinka, or any other African tongue. Hemissed his chain mates from the big canoe--even those whoweren't Moslem--and he wondered what had happened tothem. Where had they been taken? To other tou- bob farmssuch as this one? Wherever they were, were they longing ashe was to hear once again the sweetness of their owntongues--and yet feeling shut out and alone, as he did,because they knew nothing of the toubob language? Kuntarealized that he would have to learn something of this strangespeech if he was ever to understand enough about the toubobor his ways to escape from him. Without letting anyone know,he already recognized some words: "pig," "hog,""watermelon," "black-eyed peas," "oberseer," "massa,"andespecially "yessuh, massa," which was about the only thing heever heard the black ones say to them. He had also heard theblack ones describe the she toubob who lived with "massa" inthe big white house as "the missus." Once, from a distance,Kunta had glimpsed her, a bony creature the color of a toad'sunderbelly, as she walked around cutting off some flowersamong the vines and bushes that grew alongside the bighouse. Most of the other toubob words that Kunta heard stillconfused him. But behind his expressionless mask, he triedhard to make sense of them, and slowly he began toassociate various sounds with certain objects and actions.But one sound in particular was extremely puzzling to him,though he heard it exclaimed over and over nearly every dayby toubob and blacks alike. What, he wondered, was a"nigger"

CHAPTER 46

With the cutting and piling of the cornstalks at last completed,the "oberseer" began assigning different blacks to a variety oftasks after the conch horn blew each dawn. One morningKunta was given the job of snapping loose from their thickvines and piling onto a "wagon," as he'd learned they calledthe rolling boxes, a load of large, heavy vegetables the colorof overripe mangoes and somewhat resembling the biggourds that women in Juffure dried out and cut in half to makehousehold bowls. The blacks here called them punk ins Ridingwith the punk ins on the wagon to unload them at a largebuilding called the "barn," Kunta was able to see that some ofthe black men were sawing a big tree into thick sections andsplitting them with axes and wedges into firewood thatchildren were stacking into long rows as high as their heads.In another place, two men were hanging over thin poles thelarge leaves of what his nose told him was the filthy pagantobacco; he had smelled it once before on one of the trips hehad taken with his father. As he rode back and forth to the"barn," he saw that just as it was done in his own village, manythings were being dried for later use. Some women werecollecting a thick brown sage grass he heard them call it, andtying it into bundles. And some of the garden's vegetableswere being spread out on cloths to dry. Even moss--which hadbeen gathered by groups of children and plunged into boilingwater--was being dried as well; he had no idea why. It turnedhis stomach to watch--and listen--as he passed a pen wherestill more swine were being butchered. Their hair, too, he

noticed, was being dried and saved--probably for mortar--butthe thing that really sickened him was to see the swines'bladders being removed, blown up, tied at the ends, and hungup to dry along a fence; Allah only knew for what unholypurpose. When he had finished harvesting and storing the"pun- kins," Kunta was sent with several others to a grove oftrees, the limbs of which they were told to shake vigorously sothat the nuts growing in them would fall to the ground, wherethey were picked up by first-kafo children carrying baskets.Kunta picked up one of the nuts and hid it in his clothes to trylater when he was alone; it wasn't bad. When the last of thesetasks was done, the men were put to work repairing thingsthat needed it. Kunta helped another man fix a fence. And thewomen seemed to be busy in a general cleaning of the bigwhite house and their own huts. He saw some of themwashing things, first boiling them in a large black tub, thenrubbing them up and down against a wrinkled piece of tin insoapy water; he wondered why none of them knew how towash clothing properly by beating it against rocks. Kuntanoticed that the whip of the "oberseer" seemed to strike downupon someone's back much less often than before. He felt inthe atmosphere something similar to the time in Juffure whenthe harvest had all been put safely into the storehouses. Evenbefore the evening's conch horn would blow to announce theend of the day's work, some of the black men would begincavorting and prancing and singing among themselves. The"oberseer" would wheel his horse around and brandish hiswhip, but Kunta could tell he didn't really mean it. And soon theother men would join in, and then the women--singing words

that made no sense at all to Kunta. He was so filled withdisgust for all of them that he was glad when the conch hornfinally signaled for them to return to their huts. In the evenings,Kunta would sit down sideways just inside the doorway of hishut, heels flat against the packed dirt floor to minimize the ironcuffs' contact with his festering ankles. If there was any lightbreeze, he enjoyed feeling it blowing against him, and thinkingabout the fresh carpet of gold and crimson leaves he wouldfind under the trees the next morning. At Such times, his mindwould wander back to harvest-season evenings in Juffure,with the mosquitoes and other insects tormenting the peopleas they sat around the smoky night fires and settled into longconversations that would be punctuated now and then by thedistant snarling of leopards and the screaming of hyenas. Onething he didn't hear, it occurred to him, and hadn't heard sincehe left Africa, was the sound of drums. The toubob probablydidn't allow these black people to have any drums; that had tobe the reason. But why? Was it because the toubob knew andfeared how the sound of the drums could quicken the blood ofeveryone in a village, until even the little children and thetoothless old ones would dance wildly? Or how the rhythm ofthe drums would drive wrestlers to their greatest feats ofstrength? Or how the hypnotic beat could send' warriors into afrenzy against their enemies? Or perhaps the toubob weresimply afraid to allow a form of communication they couldn'tunderstand that could travel the distance between one farmand another. But these heathen blacks wouldn't understanddrum talk any better than the toubob. Kunta was forced toconcede, though--if only with great reluctance--that these

pagan blacks might not be totally irredeemable. Ignorant asthey were, some of the things they did were purely African,and he could tell that they were totally unaware of itthemselves. For one thing, he had heard all his life the verysame sounds of exclamation, accompanied by the very samehand gestures and facial expressions. And the way theseblacks moved their bodies was also identical. No less so wasthe way these blacks laughed when they were amongthemselves--with their whole bodies, just like the people ofJuffure. And Kunta had been reminded of Africa in the way thatblack women here wore their hair tied up with strings into verytight plaits--although African women often decorated theirplaits with colorful beads. And the women of this place knottedcloth pieces over their heads, although they didn't tie themcorrectly. Kunta saw that even some of these black men woretheir hair in short plaits, too, as some men did in Africa. Kuntaalso saw Africa in the way that black children here weretrained to treat their elders with politeness and respect. Hesaw it in the way that mothers carried their babies with theirplump little legs straddling the mothers' bodies. He noticedeven such small customs as how the older ones among theseblacks would sit in the evenings rubbing their gums and teethwith the finely crushed end of a twig, which would have beenlemongrass root in Juffure. And though he found it difficult tounderstand how they could do it here in toubob land, Kuntahad to admit that these blacks' great love of singing anddancing was unmistakably African. But what really began tosoften his heart somewhat toward these strange people wasthe fact that over the past moon, their great showing of

distaste for him had continued only when the "oberseer" or the"massa" was around. When Kunta came by anywhere theblacks were among themselves, most of them by now wouldquickly nod, and he would notice their expressions of concernfor the worsening condition of his left ankle. Though he alwayscoldly ignored them and hobbled on, he would sometimes findhimself later almost wishing that he had returned their nods.One night, when Kunta had fallen asleep but drifted again intowakefulness, as he often did, he lay staring up into thedarkness and feeling that Allah had somehow, for somereason, willed him to be here in this place amid the lost tribeof a great black family that reached its roots back among theancient forefathers; but unlike himself, these black ones in thisplace had no knowledge whatsoever of who they were andwhere they'd come from. Feeling around him, in some strangeway, the presence |C of his holy-man grandfather, Kuntareached out into the darkness. There was nothing to be felt,but he began speaking aloud to the Alquaran Kairaba KuntaKinte, imploring him to make known the purpose of hismission here, if there be any. He was startled to hear thesound of his own voice. Up to this moment in the toubob'sland, he had never uttered a sound addressed to anyone butAllah, except for those cries that had been, torn from him by alash. The next morning, as be joined the others in line for themarch to work, Kunta almost caught himself saying, "Mornin',"as he had heard them greet each other every day. But thoughhe knew enough toubob words by now not only to understanda good deal of what was said to him but also to make himselfsomewhat understood as well, something made him decide to

continue keeping that knowledge to himself. It occurred toKunta that these blacks masked their true feelings for thetoubob as carefully as he did his changing attitude towardthem. He had by now many times witnessed the blacks'grinning faces turn to bitterness the instant a toubob turned hishead away. He had seen them break their working tools onpurpose, and then act totally unaware of how it happened asthe "oberseer" bitterly cursed them for their clumsiness. Andhe had seen how blacks in the field, for all their show ofrushing about whenever the toubob was nearby, were reallytaking twice as much time as they needed to do whatever theywere doing. He was beginning to realize, too, that like theMan- dink as own secret sira kango language, these blacksshared some kind of communication known only amongthemselves. Sometimes when they were working out in thefield, Kunta's glance would catch a small, quick gesture ormovement of the head. Or one of them would utter somestrange, brief exclamation; at unpredictable intervals another,and then another, would repeat it, always just beyond thehearing of the "oberseer" as he rode about on his horse. Andsometimes with him right there among them, they would beginsinging something that told Kunta--even though he couldn'tunderstand it--that some message was being passed, just asthe women had done for the men on the big canoe. Whendarkness had fallen among the huts and the lamp lights nolonger glowed from the windows in the big house, Kunta'ssharp ears would detect the swift rustling of one or two blacksslipping away from "slave row"--and a few hours later, slippingback again. He wondered where they were going and for

what--and why they were crazy enough to come back. And thenext morning in the fields, he would try to guess which of themhad done it. Whoever it was, he thought he just might possiblylearn to trust them. Two huts away from Kunta, the blackswould seat themselves around the small fire of the old cookingwoman every evening after "supper," and the sight would fillKunta with a melancholy memory of Juffure, except that thewomen here sat with the men, and some of both sexes werepuffing away on pagan tobacco pipes that now and thenglowed dully in the gathering darkness. Listening intently fromwhere he sat just inside his doorway, Kunta could hear themtalking over the rasping of the crickets and the distant hootingof owls in the forest. Though he couldn't understand the words,he felt the bitterness in their tone. Even in the dark, Kunta bynow could picture in his mind the face of whichever black wastalking. His mind had filed away the voices of each of thedozen adults, along with the name of the tribe he felt thatparticular one most resembled. He knew which ones amongthem generally acted more carefree, and which seldom evensmiled, a few of them not even around the toubob. These -evening meetings had a general pattern that Kunta hadlearned. The usual first talker was usually the woman whocooked in the big house. She mimicked things said by boththe "massa" and the "missus." Then he heard the big blackone who had captured him imitating the "oberseer," and helistened with astonishment as the others all but choked tryingto stifle their laughter, lest they be heard iir the big whitehouse. But then the laughter would subside and they would sitaround talking among themselves. Kunta heard the helpless,

haunted tone of some, and the anger of others, even thoughhe grasped only a little of what they discussed. He had thefeeling that they were recalling things that had happened tothem earlier in their lives. Some of the women in particularwould be talking and then suddenly break into tears. Finallythe talking would grow quiet as one of the women began tosing, and the others joined in. Kunta couldn't understand thewords"--No-body knows de troubles I'se seed"--but he felt thesadness in the singing. At last there came a voice that Kuntaknew was the oldest man among them, the one who sat in therocking chair and wove things of corn shucks and who blewthe conch horn. The others would bow their heads, and hewould begin speaking slowly what Kunta guessed was somekind of prayer, though it was certainly not to Allah. But Kuntaremembered what was said by the old alcala down in the bigcanoe: "Allah knows every language." While the prayercontinued, Kunta kept hearing the same odd sound exclaimedsharply by both the old man and others who kept interruptinghim with it: "Oh Lawd!" He wondered if this "Oh Lawd" wastheir Allah, A few days later, the night winds began to blow witha coldness beyond any that Kunta had ever felt, and he wokeup to find the last leaves stripped from the trees. As he stoodshivering in line to go out to the fields, he was bewilderedwhen the "oberseer" directed everyone into the barn instead.Even the massa and the missus were there, and with themfour other finely dressed toubob who watched and cheered asthe blacks were separated into two groups and made to raceeach other at ripping off and flinging aside the whitened, driedoutside shucks from the piled harvest of corn. Then the toubob

and the blacks--in two groups--ate and drank their fill. The oldblack man who prayed at night then took up some kind ofmusical instrument with strings running down its length--itreminded Kunta of the ancient kora from his own homeland--and began to make some very odd music on it by jerkingsome kind of wand back and forth across the strings. Theother blacks got up and began to dance--wildly--as thewatching toubob, even the "oberseer," gleefully clapped andshouted from the sidelines. Their faces reddened withexcitement, all the toubob suddenly stood up, and as theblacks shrank to the side, they clapped their way out into themiddle of the floor and began to dance in an awkward waywhile the old man played as if he had gone mad and the otherblacks jumped up and down and clapped and screamed as ifthey were seeing the greatest performance of their lives. Itmade Kunta think of a story he had been told by his belovedold Grandmother Nyo Boto when he was in the first kafo. Shehad told how the king of a village had called together all of themusicians and commanded them to play their very best forhim to dance for the people, including even the slaves. Andthe people were all delighted and they left all singing loudly tothe skies and there had never been another king like him.Back in his hut later that night reflecting upon what he hadseen, it occurred to Kunta that in some strong, strange, andvery deep way, the blacks and the toubob had some need foreach other. Not only during the dancing in the barn, but also onmany other occasions, it had seemed to him that the toubobwere at their happiest when they were close around the blackones--even when they were beating them.

CHAPTER 47

Kunta's left ankle had become so infected that pus drainingfrom the wound all but covered the iron cuff with a sickly yellowslickness, and his crippled limping finally caused the"oberseer" to take a close look. Turning his head away, hetold Samson to remove the cuffs. It was still painful to raise hisfoot, but Kunta was so thrilled to be unfettered that he hardlyfelt it. And that night, after the others had gone to bed and allhad become still, Kunta limped outside and stole away onceagain. Crossing a field in the opposite direction from the onehe had fled across the last time, he headed toward what heknew was a wider, deeper forest on the other side. He hadreached a ravine and was clambering up the far side on hisbelly when he heard the first sound of a movement in thedistance. He lay still with his heart pounding as he heardheavy footfalls approaching and finally the hoarse voice ofSamson cursing and shouting "Toby! Toby! " Gripping a stoutstick he had sharpened into a crude spear, Kunta feltstrangely calm, almost numb, as his eyes coldly watched thebulky silhouette moving quickly this way and that in the brushat the top of the ravine. Something made him sense thatSamson feared for himself if Kunta succeeded in gettingaway. Closer and closer he stalked--Kunta coiled tight butmotionless as a stone--and then the moment came. Hurlingthe spear with all his might, he grunted slightly with the pain itcaused and Sam- son, hearing him, sprang instantly to oneside; it missed him by a hair. Kunta tried to run, but theweakness of his ankles made him hardly able to keep upright,

and when he whirled to fight, Samson was upon him,slamming with his greater weight behind each blow, untilKunta was driven to the earth. Hauling him back upward,Samson kept pounding, aiming only at his chest and belly, asKunta tried to keep his body twisting as he gouged and bitand clawed. Then one massive blow sent him crashing downagain, this time to stay. He couldn't even move to defendhimself any further. Gasping for breath, Samson tied Kunta'swrists tightly together with a rope, and then began jerkingKunta along by its free end, back toward the farm, kicking himsavagely whenever he stumbled or faltered, and cursing himevery step of the way. It was all Kunta could do to keepstaggering and lurching behind Samson. Dizzy from pain andexhaustion--and disgust with himself--he grimly anticipated theheatings he would receive when they reached his hut. Butwhen they finally arrived--shortly before dawn--Samson onlygave him another kick or two and then left him alone lying in aheap. Kunta was so used up that he trembled. But with histeeth he began to gnash and tear at the fibers of the ropebinding his wrists together, until his teeth hurt like flashes offire. But the rope finally came apart just as the conch hornblew. Kunta lay weeping. He had failed again, and he prayedto Allah. Through the days that followed, it was as if he andSamson shared some secret pact of hatred. Kunta knew howclosely he was being watched; he knew that Samson waswaiting for any excuse to hurt him in a manner the toubobwould approve. Kunta responded by going through themotions of doing whatever work he was given to do as ifnothing had happened--but even faster and more efficiently

than before. He had noticed how the "oberseer" paid lessattention to those who worked the hardest or did the mostgrinning. Kunta couldn't bring himself to grin, but with grimsatisfaction he noted that the more he sweated, the less oftenthe lash fell across his back. One evening after work, Kuntawas passing near the barn when he spotted a thick ironwedge lying half concealed among some of the sawedsections of trees where the "oberseer" had two men splittingfirewood. Glancing around quickly in all directions, and seeingno one watching, Kunta snatched up the wedge and,concealing it in his shirt, hurried to his hut. Using it to dig ahole in the hard dirt floor, he placed the wedge in the hole,packed the loose dirt back over it, then beat it down carefullywith a rock until the floor looked completely undisturbed. Hespent a sleepless night worrying that a wedge discoveredmissing might cause all of the cabins to be searched. He feltbetter when there was no outcry the following day, but he stillwasn't sure just how he might employ the wedge to helphimself escape, when that time came again. What he reallywanted to get his hands on was one of those long knives thatthe "oberseer" would issue to a few of the men each morning.But each evening he would see the "oberseer" demanding theknives back and counting them carefully. With one of thoseknives, he could cut brush to move more quickly within aforest, and if he had to, he could kill a dog--or a man. One coldafternoon almost a moon later--the sky bleak and slaty--Kuntawas on his way across one of the fields to help another manrepair a fence when, to his astonishment, what looked like saltbegan to fall from the sky, at first lightly, then more rapidly and

thickly. As the salt became a flaky whiteness, he heard theblacks nearby exclaiming, "Snow!" and guessed that waswhat they called it. When he bent down to pick some of it up, itwas cold to his touch--and even colder when he licked it off afinger with his tongue. It stung, and it had no taste whatever.He tried to smell it, but not only did there seem to be no odoreither, it also disappeared into watery nothing- |C ness. Andwherever he looked on the ground was a whitish film. But bythe time he reached the other side of the field, the "snow" hadstopped and even begun to melt away. Hiding his amazement,Kunta composed himself and nodded silently to his blackpartner, who was waiting by the broken fence. They set towork--Kunta helping the other man to string a kind of metaltwine that he called "wire." After a while they reached a placealmost hidden by tall grass, and as the other man hackedsome of it down with the long knife he carried, Kunta's eyeswere gauging the distance between where he stood and thenearest woods. He knew that Samson was nowhere near andthe "oberseer" was keeping watch in another field that day.Kunta worked busily, to give the other man no suspicion ofwhat was in his mind. But his breath came tensely as he stoodholding the wire tight and looking down on the head of theman bent over his work. The knife had been left a few stepsbehind them, where the chopping of the brush had stopped.With a silent prayer to Allah, Kunta clasped his handstogether, lifted them high, and brought them down across theback of the man's neck with all the violence of which his slightbody was capable. The man crumpled without a sound, as ifhe had been pole axed. Within a moment, Kunta had bound

the man's ankles and wrists with the wire. Snatching up thelong knife, Kunta suppressed the impulse to stab him--thiswas not the hated Samson--and went running toward thewoods, bent over almost double. He felt a lightness, as if hewere running in a dream, as if this weren't really happening atall. He came out of it a few moments later--when he heard theman he had left alive yelling at the top of his lungs. He shouldhave killed him, Kunta thought, furious with himself, as he triedto run yet faster. Instead of fighting his way deeply into theunderbrush when he reached the woods, he skirted it thistime. He knew that he had to achieve distance first, thenconcealment. If he got far enough fast enough, he would havetime to find a good place to hide and rest before moving onunder cover of the night. Kunta was prepared to live in thewoods as the animals did. He had learned many things aboutthis toubob land by now, together with what he already knewfrom Africa. He would capture rabbits and other rodents withsnare traps and cook them over a fire that wouldn't smoke. Ashe ran, he stayed in the area where the brush would concealhim but wasn't thick enough to slow him down. By nightfall,Kunta knew that he had run a good distance. Yet he keptgoing, crossing gullies and ravines, and for quite a way downthe bed of a shallow stream. Only when it was completely darkdid he allow himself to stop, hiding himself in a spot where thebrush was dense but from which he could easily run if he hadto. As he lay there in the darkness, he listened carefully for thesound of dogs. But there was nothing but stillness all aroundhim. Was it possible? Was he really going to make it thistime? Just then he felt a cold fluttering on his face, and

reached up with his hand. "Snow" was falling again! Soon hewas covered and surrounded by whiteness as far as he couldsee. Silently it fell, deeper and deeper, until Kunta began tofear he was going to be buried in it; he was already freezing.Finally he couldn't stop himself from leaping up and running tolook for better cover. He had run a good way when hestumbled and fell; he wasn't hurt, but when he looked back, hesaw with horror that his feet had left a trail in the snow so deepthat a blind man could follow him. He knew that there was noway he could erase the tracks, and he knew that the momingwas now not far away. The only possible answer was moredistance. He tried to increase his speed, but he had beenrunning most of the night, and his breath was coming inlabored gasps. The long knife had begun to feel heavy; itwould cut brush, but it wouldn't melt "snow." The sky wasbeginning to lighten in the east when he heard, far ahead ofhim, the faint sound of conch horns. He changed course in thenext stride. But he had the sinking feeling that there wasnowhere he could find to rest safely amid this blanketingwhiteness. When he heard the distant baying of the dogs, arage flooded up in him such as he had never felt before. Heran like a hunted leopard, but the barking grew louder andlouder, and finally, when he glanced back over his shoulder forthe tenth time, he saw them gaining on him. The men couldn'tbe far behind. Then he heard a gun fire, and somehow itpropelled him forward even faster than before. But the dogscaught up with him anyway. When they were but strides away,Kunta whirled and crouched down, snarling back at them. Asthey came lunging forward with their fangs bared, he too

lunged at them, slashing open the first dog's belly with a singlesideways swipe of the knife; with another blur of his arm, hehacked the blade between the eyes of the next one. Springingaway, Kunta began running again. But soon he heard the menon horses crashing through the brush behind him, and he allbut dove for the deeper brush where the horses couldn't go.Then there was another shot, and another and he felt aflashing pain in his leg. Knocked down in a heap, he hadstaggered upright again when the toubob shouted and firedagain, and he heard the bullets thud into trees by his head. Letthem kill me, thought Kunta; I will die as a man should. Thenanother shot hit the same leg, and it smashed him down like agiant fist. He was snarling on the ground when he saw the"oberseer" and another toubob coming toward him with theirguns leveled and he was about to leap up and force them toshoot him again and be done with it, but the wounds in his legwouldn't let him rise. The other toubob held his gun at Kunta'shead as the "oberseer" jerked off Kunta's clothing until hestood naked in the snow, the blood trickling down his leg andstaining the whiteness at his feet. Cursing with each breath,the "oberseer" knocked Kunta all but senseless with his fist;then both of them tied him facing a large tree, with his wristsbound on the other side. The lash began cutting into the fleshacross Kunta's shoulders and back, with the "oberseer"grunting and Kunta shuddering under the force of each blow.After a while Kunta couldn't stop himself from screaming withthe pain, but the beating went on until his sagging bodypressed against the tree. His shoulders and back werecovered with long, half-opened bleeding welts that in some

places exposed the muscles beneath. He couldn't be sure, butthe next thing Kunta knew he had the feeling he was falling.Then he felt the coldness of the snow against him andeverything went black. He came to in his hut, and along withhis senses, pain returned--excruciating and enveloping. Theslightest movement made him cry out in agony; and he wasback in chains. But even worse, his nose informed him that hisbody was wrapped from feet to chin in a large cloth soakedwith grease of the swine. When the old cooking woman camein with food, he tried to spit at her, but succeeded only inthrowing up. He thought he saw compassion in her eyes. Twodays later, he was awakened early in the morning by thesounds of festivities. He heard black people outside the bighouse shouting "Christmas gif, Massa!," and he wonderedwhat they could possibly have to celebrate. He wanted to die,so that his soul could join the ancestors; he wanted to be doneforever with misery unending in this toubob land, so Stiflingand stinking that he couldn't draw a clean breath in it. Heboiled with fury that instead of beating him like a man, thetoubob had stripped him naked. When he became well, hewould take revenge--and he would escape again. Or he woulddie.

CHAPTER 48

When Kunta finally emerged from his hut, again with both ofhis ankles shackled, most of the other blacks avoided him,rolling their eyes in fear of being near him, and moving quicklyelsewhere, as if he were a wild animal of some kind. Only the

old cooking woman and the old man who blew the conch hornwould look at him directly. Samson was nowhere to be seen.Kunta had no idea where he had gone, but Kunta was glad.Then, a few days later, he saw the hated black one bearingthe unhealed marks of a lash; he was gladder still. But at theslightest excuse, the lash of the toubob "oberseer" fell onceagain on Kunta's back as well. He knew every day that he wasbeing watched as he went through the motions of his work,like the others moving more quickly when the toubob cameanywhere near, then slowing down as they left. Unspeaking,Kunta did whatever he was ordered to do. And when the daywas over, he carried his melancholy--deep within himself--from the fields back to the dingy little hut where he slept. In hisloneliness, Kunta began talking to himself, most often inimaginary conversations with his family. He would talk to themmostly in his mind, but sometimes aloud. "Fa," he would say,"these black ones are not like us. Their bones, their blood,their sinews, their hands, their feet are not their own. They liveand breathe not for themselves but for the toubob. Nor do theyown anything at all, not even their own children. They are fedand nursed and bred for others." "Mother," he would say,"these women wear cloths upon their heads, but they do notknow how to tie them; there is little that they cook that does notcontain the meat or the greases of the filthy swine; and manyof them have lain down with the toubob, for I see their childrenwho are cursed with the sasso-borro half color. " And he wouldtalk with his brothers Lamin, Suwadu, and Madi, telling themthat even the wisest of the elders could never reallyadequately impress upon them the importance of realizing

that the most vicious of the forest animals was not half asdangerous as the toubob. And so the moons passed in thisway, and soon the spikes of "ice" had fallen and melted intowater. And before long after that, green grass came peepingthrough the dark-reddish earth, the trees began to show theirbuds, and the birds were singing once again. And then camethe plowing of the fields and the planting of the endless rows.Finally the sun's rays upon the soil made it so hot that Kuntawas obliged to step quickly, and if he had to stop, to keep hisfeet moving to prevent them from blistering. Kunta had bidedhis time and minded his own business, waiting for his keepersto grow careless and take their eyes off him once again. Buthe had the feeling that even the other blacks were still keepingan eye on him, even when the "oberseer" and the othertoubob weren't around. He had to find some way not to be soclosely watched. Perhaps he could take advantage of the factthat the tou- bob didn't look at blacks as people but as things.Since the toubob's reactions to these black things seemed todepend on how those things acted, he decided to act asinconspicuous as possible. Though it made him despisehimself, Kunta forced himself to start behaving the way theother blacks did whenever the toubob came anywhere near.Hard as he tried, he couldn't bring himself to grin and shuffle,but he made an effort to appear cooperative, if not friendly;and he made a great show of looking busy. He had alsolearned a good many more toubob words by now, alwayskeenly listening to everything that was said around him, eitherout in the fields or around the huts at night, and though he stillchose not to speak himself, he began to make it clear that he

could understand. Cotton--one of the main crops on the farm--grew quickly here in the toubob's land. Soon its flowers hadturned into hard green bolls and split open, each filled withfluffy balls, until the fields as far as Kunta could see were vastseas of whiteness, dwarfing the fields he had seen aroundJuffure. It was time to harvest, and the wake- up hour beganblowing earlier in the morning, it seemed to Kunta, and thewhip of the "oberseer" was cracking in warning even beforethe "slaves," as they were called, could tumble from theirbeds. By watching others out in the fields, Kunta soon learnedthat a hunched position made his long canvas sack seem todrag less heavily behind him as the endlessly repeatedhandfuls of cotton from the bolls slowly filled his sack. Then hewould drag it to be emptied in the wagon that waited at theend of the rows. Kunta filled his sack twice a day, which wasabout average, although there were some--hated and enviedby the others for bending their backs so hard to please thetoubob, and succeeding at it--who could pick cotton so fastthat their hands seemed a blur; by the time the horn blew atdusk, their sacks would have been filled and emptied into thewagon at least three times. When each cotton wagon wasfilled, it was taken to a storehouse on the farm, but Kuntanoticed that the overflowing wagons of tobacco harvested inthe larger fields adjoining his were driven away somewheredown the road. Four days passed before it returned empty--just in time to pass another loaded wagon on its way out.Kunta also began seeing other loaded tobacco wagons,doubtlessly from other farms, rolling along the main road in thedistance, drawn sometimes by as many as four mules. Kunta

didn't know where the wagons were going, but he knew theywent a long way, for he had seen the utter exhaustion ofSamson and other drivers when they had returned from one oftheir trips. Perhaps they would go far enough to take him tofreedom. Kunta found it hard to get through the next severaldays in his excitement with this tremendous idea. He ruled outquickly any effort to hide on one of this farm's wagons; therewould be no time without someone's eyes too near for him toslip unnoticed into a load of tobacco. It must be a wagonmoving along the big road from some other farm. Using thepretext of going to the outhouse late that night, Kunta madesure that no one was about, then went to a place where hecould see the road in the moon light. Sure enough--thetobacco wagons were traveling at night. He could see thenickering lights each wagon carried, until finally those smallspecks of brightness would disappear in the distance. Heplanned and schemed every minute, no details of the localtobacco wagons escaping his notice. Picking in the fields, hishands fairly flew; he even made himself grin if the "oberseer"rode anywhere near. And all the time he was thinking how hewould be able to leap onto the rear end of a loaded, rollingwagon at night and burrow under the tobacco without beingheard by the drivers up front because of the bumping wagon'snoise, and unseen not only because of the darkness but alsobecause of the tall mound of leaves between the drivers andthe rear of the wagon. It filled him with revulsion even to thinkof having to touch and smell the pagan plant he had managedto stay away from all his life, but if that was the only way to getaway, he felt sure that Allah would forgive him.

CHAPTER 49

Waiting one evening soon afterward behind the outhouse, asthe slaves called the hut where they went to relievethemselves, Kunta killed with a rock one of the rabbits thatabounded in the woods nearby. Carefully he sliced it thinly anddried it as he had learned in manhood training, for he wouldneed to take some nourishment along with him. Then, with asmooth rock, he honed the rusted and bent knife blade he hadfound and straightened, and wired it into a wooden handle thathe had carved. But even more important than the food and theknife was the sap hie he had made--a cock's feather to attractthe spirits, a horse's hair for strength, a bird's wishbone forsuccess--all tightly wrapped and sewn within a small square ofgunny sacking with a needle he had made from a thorn. Herealized the foolishness of wishing that his sap hie might beblessed by a holy man, but any sap hie was better than no saphie at all. He hadn't slept all night, but far from being tired, itwas all Kunta could do not to burst with excitement to keepfrom showing any emotion at all throughout the next day'sworking in the fields. For tonight would be the night. Back inhis hut after the evening meal, his hands trembled as hepushed into his pocket the knife and the dried slices of rabbit,then tied his sap hie tightly around his upper right arm. Hecould hardly stand hearing the familiar early-night routine ofthe other blacks; for each moment, which seemed to be takingforever to pass, might bring some unexpected occurrence thatcould ruin his plan. But the bone-weary field hands' mournfulsinging and praying soon ended. To let them get safely

asleep, Kunta waited as much longer as he dared. Then,grasping his homemade knife, he eased out into the darknight. Sensing no one about, he bent low and ran as fast as hecould go, plunging after a while into a small, thick growth ofbrush just below where the big road curved. He huddled down,breathing hard. Suppose no more wagons were comingtonight? The thought lanced through him. And then a nearlyparalyzing, worse fear: Suppose the driver's helper sits as arear lookout? But he had to take the chance. He heard awagon coming minutes before he saw its flickering light. Teethclenched, muscles quivering, Kunta felt ready to collapse. Thewagon seemed barely crawling. But finally, it was directlyacross from him and slowly passing. Two dim figures sat onits front seat. Feeling like screaming, he lunged from thegrowth of brush. Trotting low behind the squeaking, lurchingwagon, Kunta awaited the road's next rough spot; then hisoutstretched hand clawed over the tailboard, and he wasvaulting upward, over the top, and into the mountain oftobacco. He was on board! Frantically he went burrowing in.The leaves were packed together far more tightly than he hadexpected, but at last his body was concealed. Even afterpawing open an air space to breathe more freely the stench ofthe filthy weed almost made him sick he had to keep movinghis back and shoulders a bit this way or that, trying to getcomfortable under the pressing weight. But finally he found theright position, and the rocking motion of the wagon, cushionedby the leaves, which were very warm around him, soon rhadehim drowsy. A loud bump brought him awake with a sickeningstart, and he began to think about being discovered. Where

was the wagon going, and how long would it take to get there?And when it arrived, would he be able to slip away unseen? Orwould he find himself trailed and trapped again? Why had henot thought of this before? A picture flashed into his mind ofthe dogs, and Samson, and the toubob with their guns, andKunta shuddered. Considering what they did to him last time,he knew that this time his life would depend upon not gettingcaught. But the more he thought of it, the stronger his urgegrew to leave the wagon now. With his hands, he parted theleaves enough to poke his head out- Out in the moonlightwere endless fields and countryside. He couldn't jump outnow. The moon was bright enough to help his pursuers asmuch as it could help him. And the longer he rode, the lesslikely it was that the dogs could ever track him. He covered upthe hole and tried to calm himself; but every time the wagonlurched, he reared that it was going to stop, and his heartwould nearly leap from his chest. Much later, when he openedthe hole again and saw that it was nearing dawn, Kunta madeup his mind. He had to leave the wagon right now, before hecame any closer to the enemy of open daylight. Praying toAllah, he grasped the handle of his knife and began to wriggleout of his hole. When his entire body was free, he waitedagain for the wagon to lurch. It seemed to take an eternity, butwhen it finally did he made a light leap--and was on the road.A moment later he was out of sight in the bushes. Kuntaswung in a wide arc to avoid two toubob farms where he couldsee the familiar big house with the small, dark huts nearby.The sounds of their wake-up horns floated across the still airto his ears, and as the dawn brightened, he was slashing

through underbrush deeper and deeper into what he knewwas a wide expanse of forest. It was cool in the dense woods,and the dew that sprinkled onto him felt good, and he swunghis knife as if it were weightless, grunting in his pleasure witheach swing. During the early afternoon, he happened upon asmall stream of clear water tippling over mossy rocks, andfrogs jumped in alarm as he stopped to drink from it with hiscupped hands. Looking around and feeling safe enough torest for a while, he sat down on the bank and reached into hispocket. Taking out a piece of the dried rabbit and swishing itaround in the stream, he put it in his mouth and chewed. Theearth was springy and soft beneath him, and the only soundshe could hear were made by the toads and the insects and thebirds. He listened to them as he ate, and watched sunlightstippling the leafy boughs above him with splashes of goldamong the green; and he told himself that he was glad hedidn't have to run as hard or as steadily as he had before, forexhaustion had made him an easy prey. On and on he ran, forthe rest of the afternoon, and after pausing for his sundownprayer, he went on still farther until darkness--and weariness--forced him to stop for the night. Lying on his bed of leaves andgrass, he decided that later he would build himself a shelter offorked sticks with a roof of grass, as he had learned inmanhood training. Sleep claimed him quickly, but severaltimes during the night he was awakened by mosquitoes, andhe heard the snarlings of wild animals in the distance as theymade their kills, Up with the first rays of the sun, Kunta quicklysharpened his knife and then was off again. Awhile later hecame upon what was clearly a trail where a number of men

had walked; although he could see that it had not been used ina long time, he ran back into the woods as fast as he couldgo. Deeper and deeper into the forest, his knife kept slashing.Several times he saw snakes, but on the toubob farm he hadlearned that they would not attack unless they were frightenedor cornered, so he let them slither away. Now and then hewould imagine that he heard a dog barking somewhere, andhe would shiver, for more than men, he feared dogs' noses.Several times during the day, Kunta got into foliage so densethat in some places even his knife wasn't stout enough to cleara path, and he had to return and find another way. Twice hestopped to sharpen his knife, which seemed to be getting dullmore and more often, but when it didn't work any betterafterward, he suspected that the constant slashing at briars,bushes, and vines had begun to sap his strength. So hepaused to rest again, ate some more rabbit--and some wildblackberries--and drank water that he found in cupped leavesof plants at the bases of trees. That night he rested by anotherstream, plunging into sleep the moment he lay down, deaf tothe cries of animals and night birds, insensible even to thebuzzing and biting of the insects that were drawn to his sweatybody. It wasn't until the next morning that Kunta began to thinkabout where he was going. He hadn't let himself think of itbefore. Since he couldn't know where he was going becausehe didn't have any idea where he was, he decided that hisonly course was to avoid nearness to any other human beings,black or toubob, and to keep running toward the sunrise. Themaps of Africa he'd seen as a boy showed the big water tothe west, so he knew that eventually he'd reach it if he kept

moving east. But when he thought about what might happenthen, even if he wasn't caught; of how he would ever be able tocross the water, even if he had a boat; of how he would everget safely to the other side, even if he knew the way--he beganto get deeply frightened. Between prayers, he fingered thesap hie charm on his arm even as he ran. That night, as he layhidden beneath a bush, he found himself thinking of theMandinkas' greatest hero, the warrior Sundiata, who hadbeen a crippled slave so meanly treated by his African masterthat he had escaped and gone hiding in the swamps, wherehe found and organized other escaped ones into aconquering army that carved out the vast Mandinka Empire.Maybe, Kunta thought as he set out again on this fourth day,he could find other escaped Africans somewhere here in theland of toubob, and maybe they would be as desperate as hewas to feel their toes once again in the dust of their nativeland. Maybe enough of them together could build or steal abig canoe. And then. Kunta's reverie was interrupted by aterrible sound. He stopped in his tracks. No, it wasimpossible! But there was no mistake; it was the baying ofhounds. Wildly he went hacking at the brush, stumbling andfalling and scrambling up again. Soon he was so tired thatwhen he fell again, he just sat there, very still, clutching thehandle of his knife and listening. But he heard nothing now--nothing but the sounds of the birds and the insects. Had hereally heard the dogs? The thought tormented him. He didn'tknow which was his worst enemy: the toil- bob or his ownimagination. He couldn't afford to assume that he hadn't reallyheard them, so he started running. again; the only safety was

to keep moving. But soon--exhausted not only by having torace so far and so fast, but also by fear itself--he had to restagain. He would close his eyes for just a moment, and thenget going again. He awoke in a sweat, sitting "bolt upright. Itwas pitch dark! He had slept the day away! Shaking his head,he was trying to figure out what had wakened him whensuddenly he heard it again: the baying of dogs, this time muchcloser than before. He sprang up and away so frantically that itwas several moments before it flashed upon his mind that hehad forgotten his long knife. He dashed back to where he hadlain, but the springy vines were a maze, and though he knew--maddeningly--that he had to be within arm's length of it, noamount of groping and scrabbling enabled him to lay his handon it. As the baying grew steadily louder, his stomach beganto churn. If he didn't find it, he knew he would get capturedagain--or worse. With his hands jerking around everywhereunderfoot, he finally grabbed hold of a rock about the size ofhis fist. With a desperate cry, he snatched it up and bolted intothe deep brush., All that night, like one possessed, he randeeper and deeper into the forest--tripping, falling, tanglinghis feet in: vines, stopping only for moments to catch hisbreath: But | the hounds kept gaining on him, closer andcloser, and; finally, soon after dawn, he could see them overhis shoulder. It was like a nightmare repeating itself. Hecouldn't, run any farther. Turning and crouching in a littleclearing I with his back against a tree, he was ready for them--right; hand clutching a stout limb he had snapped off anothertree \ while he was running at top speed, left hand holding therock in a grip of death. The dogs began to lunge toward

Kunta, but with a hideous cry he lashed the club at them soferociously that they retreated and cowered just beyond itsrange, barking and slavering, until the two toubob appearedon their horses. Kunta had never seen these men before. Theyounger one drew a gun, but the older one waved him back ashe got down off his horse and walked toward Kunta. He wascalmly uncoiling a long black whip. Kunta stood there wild-eyed, his body shaking, his brain flashing a memory of toubobfaces in the wood grove, on the big canoe, in the prison, in theplace where he had been sold, on the heathen farm, in thewoods where he had been caught, beaten, lashed, and shotthree times before. As the toubob's arm reared backward withthe lash, Kunta's arm whipped forward with a viciousness thatsent him falling sideways as his fingers released the rock. Heheard the toubob shout; then a bullet cracked past his ear, andthe dogs were upon him. As he rolled over and over on theground ripping at the dogs, Kunta glimpsed one toubob's facewith blood running down it. Kunta was snarling like a wildanimal when they called off the dogs and approached him withtheir guns drawn. He knew from their faces that he would dienow, and he didn't care. One lunged forward and grabbed himwhile the other clubbed with the gun, but it still took all of theirstrength to hold him, for he was writhing, fighting, moaning,shrieking in both Arabic and Mandinka--until they clubbed himagain. Wrestling him violently toward a tree, they tore theclothes off him and tied him tightly to it around the middle ofhis body. He steeled himself to be beaten to death. But thenthe bleeding toubob halted abruptly, and a strange look cameonto his face, almost a smile, and he spoke briefly, hoarsely to

the younger one. The younger one grinned and nodded, thenwent back to his horse and unlashed a short-handled huntingax that had been stowed against the saddle. He chopped arotting tree trunk away from its roots and pulled it over next toKunta. Standing before him, the bleeding one began makinggestures. He pointed to Kunta's genitals, then to the huntingknife in his belt. Then he pointed to Kunta's foot, and then tothe ax in his hand. When Kunta understood, he howled andkicked--and was clubbed again. Deep in his marrow, a voiceshouted that a man, to be a man, must have sons. And Kunta'shands flew down to cover his foto. The two toubob werewickedly grinning. One pushed the trunk under Kunta's rightfoot as the other tied the foot to the trunk so tightly that all ofKunta's raging couldn't free it. The bleeding toubob picked upthe ax. Kunta was screaming and thrashing as the ax flashedup, then down so fast--severing skin, tendons, muscles, bone--that Kunta heard the ax thud into the trunk as the shock of itsent the agony deep into his brain. As the explosion of painbolted through him, Kunta's upper body spasmed forward andhis hands went flailing downward as if to save the front half ofhis foot, which was falling forward, as bright red blood jettedfrom the stump as he plunged into blackness.

CHAPTER 50

For the better part of a day, Kunta lapsed into and out ofconsciousness, his eyes closed, the muscles of his faceseeming to sag, with spittle dribbling from a corner of hisopen mouth. As he gradually grew aware that he was alive, the

terrible pain seemed to split into parts--pounding within hishead, lancing throughout his body, and searing in his right leg.When his eyes required too much effort to open, he tried toremember what had happened. Then it came to him--theflushed, contorted toubob face behind the ax flashing upward,the thunk against the stump, the front of his foot toppling off.Then the throbbing in Kunta's head surged so violently that helapsed mercifully back into blackness. The next time heopened his eyes, he found himself staring at a spider web onthe ceiling. After a while, he managed to stir just enough torealize that his chest, wrists, and ankles were tied down, buthis right foot and the back of his head were propped againstsomething soft, and he was wearing some kind of gown. Andmingled with his agony was the smell of something like tar. Hehad thought he knew all about suffering before, but this wasworse. He was mumbling to Allah when the door of the hut waspushed open; he stopped instantly. A tall toubob he had neverseen came in carrying a small black bag. His face was set inan angry way, though the anger seemed not to be directed atKunta. Waving away the buzzing flies, the toubob bent downalongside him, Kunta could see only his back; then somethingthe toubob did to his foot brought such a shock that Kuntashrieked' like a woman, rearing upward against the chestrope. Finally turning around to face him, the toubob placed hispalm against Kunta's forehead and then grasped his wristlightly and held it for a long moment. Then he stood up, andwhile he watched the grimaces on Kunta's drawn face, calledout sharply, "Bell!" A black-skinned woman, short andpowerfully built, with a stern but not forbidding face, soon

came inside bringing water in a tin container. In some peculiarway, Kunta felt that he recognized her, that in some dream shehad been already there looking down at him and bendingbeside him with sips of water. The toubob spoke to her in agentle way as he took something from his black bag andstirred it into a cup of the water. Again the toubob spoke, andnow the black woman kneeled and one of her hands raisedthe back of Kunta's head as the other tilted the cup for him todrink, which he did, being too sick and weak to resist. Hisfleeting downward glance enabled him to catch a glimpse ofthe tip of the huge bandaging over his right foot; it was rust-colored with dried blood. He shuddered, wanting to spring up,but his muscles felt as useless as the vile-tasting stuff that hewas permitting to go down his throat. The black woman theneased his head back down, the toubob said something to heragain, and she replied, and the two of them went out, Almostbefore they were gone, Kunta floated off into deep sleep.When next he opened his eyes late that night, he couldn'tremember where he was. His right foot felt as if it were afire;he started to jerk it upward, but the movement made him cryout. His mind lapsed off into a shadowy blur of images andthoughts, each of them drifting beyond his grasp as quickly asthey came. Glimpsing Binta, he told her that he was hurt, butnot to worry, for he would be home again as soon as he wasable. Then he saw a family of birds flying high in the sky and aspear piercing one of them. He felt himself falling, crying out,desperately clutching out at nothingness. When he woke upagain, Kunta felt sure that something terrible had happened tohis foot; or had it been a nightmare? He only knew that he was

very sick. His whole right side felt numb; his throat was dry; hisparched lips were starting to split from fever; be was soakedin sweat, and it had a sickly smell. Was it possible that anyonewould really chop off another's foot? Then he rememberedthat toubob pointing to his foot and to his genitals, and thehorrible expression on his face. Again the rage flooded up;and Kunta made an effort to flex his toes. It brought a blindingsheet of pain. He lay there waiting for it to subside, but itwouldn't. And it was unbearable--except that somehow he wasbearing it. He hated himself for wanting that toubob to comeback with more of whatever it was he put in the water that hadgiven him some ease. Time and again he tried to pull hishands free of the loose binding at his sides, but to no avail. Helay there writhing and groaning in anguish when the dooropened again. It was the black woman, the yellowish light froma flame flickering on her black face. Smiling, she beganmaking sounds, facial expressions, and motions that Kuntaknew were an effort to make him understand something.Pointing toward the hut's door, she pantomimed a tall manwalking in, then giving something to drink to a moaningperson, who then broadly smiled as if feeling much better.Kunta made no sign that he understood her mesming that thetall toubob was a man of medicine. Shrugging, she squatteddown and began pressing a damp, cooling cloth againstKunta's forehead. He hated her no less for it. Then shemotioned that she was going to raise his head for him to sipsome of the soup she had brought. Swallowing it, he feltflashing anger at her pleased look. Then she made a smallhole in the dirt floor into which she set a round, long, waxy

thing and lighted a flame at the top of it. With gesture andexpression, she asked finally if there was anything else hewanted. He just glowered at her, and finally she left. Kuntastared at the flame, trying to think, until it guttered out againstthe dirt. In the darkness, the kill-toubob plotting in the bigcanoe came into his mind; he longed to be a warrior in a greatblack army slaughtering toubob as fast as his arms couldswing. But then Kunta was shuddering, fearful that he wasdying himself, even though that would mean he would beforevermore with Allah. After all, none had ever returned fromAllah to tell what it was like with Him; nor had any everreturned to their villages to tell what it was like with the toubob.On Bell's next visit, she looked down with deep concern intoKunta's bloodshot and yellowing eyes, which had sunk fartherinto his fevered face. He lay steadily shuddering, groaning,even thinner than when he had been brought here the weekbefore. She went back outside, but within an hour was backwith thick cloths, two steaming pots, and a pair of foldedquilts. Moving quickly and--for some reason--furtively, shecovered Kunta's bared chest with a thick, steaming poultice ofboiled leaves mixed and mashed with something acrid. Thepoultice was so blistering hot that Kunta moaned and tried toshake it off, but Bell firmly shoved him back. Dipping clothsinto her other steaming pot, she wrung them out and packedthem over the poultice, then covered Kunta with the two quilts.She sat and watched the sweat pour from him onto the dirtfloor in rivulets. With a corner of her apron. Bell dabbed at thesweat that trickled into his closed eyes, and finally he layentirely limp. Only when she felt the chest cloths and found

them barely warm did she remove them. Then, wiping hischest clean of all traces of the poultice, she covered him withthe quilts and left. When he next awakened, Kunta was tooweak even to move his body, which felt about to suffocateunder the heavy quilts. But--without any gratitude--he knew thathis fever was broken. He lay wondering where that womanhad learned to do what she had done. It was like Binta'smedicines from his childhood, the herbs of Allah's earthpassed down from the ancestors. And Kunta's mind playedback to him, as well, the black woman's secretive manner,making him realize that it had not been toubob medicine. Notonly was he sure that the toubob were unaware of it, he knewthat the toubob should never know of it. And Kunta foundhimself studying the black woman's face in his mind. Whatwas it the toubob had called her? "Bell." With reluctance, aftera while, Kunta decided that more than any other tribe, thewoman resembled his own. He tried to picture her in Juffure,pounding her breakfast couscous, paddling her dugout canoethrough the belong, bringing in the sheaves of the rice harvestbalanced on her head. But then Kunta reviled himself for theridiculousness of thinking of his village in any connection withthese pagan, heathen black ones here in the toubob's land.Kunta's pains had become less constant now, and lessintense; it hurt now mostly when he tried to strain against thebonds in his desperate achings to move around. But the fliestormented him badly, buzzing around his bandaged foot, orwhat was left of it, and now and then he would jerk that leg alittle to make the flies swarm up awhile before returning. Kuntabegan to wonder where he was. Not only was this not his own

hut, but he could also tell from the sounds outside, and thevoices of black people walking by, that he had been taken tosome new farm. Lying there, he could smell their cooking andhear their early-night talking and singing and praying, and thehorn blowing in the morning. And each day the tall toubobcame into the hut, always making Kunta's foot hurt as hechanged the bandage. But when Bell came three times daily--she brought food and water, along with a smile and a warmhand on his fore- head--he had to remind himself that theseblacks were no better than the toubob. This black and thistoubob may not mean him any harm--though it was too soon tobe sure--but it was the black Samson who had beaten himalmost to death, and it was toubob who had lashed him andshot him and cut his foot off. The more he gained in strength,the deeper grew his rage at having to lie there helpless,unable even to move anywhere, when for all of his seventeenrains he had been able to run, bound, and climb anywhere hewanted to. It was monstrous beyond understanding orendurance. When the tall toubob untied Kunta's wrists from theshort stakes that had held them at his sides, Kunta spent thenext few hours trying futilely to raise his arms; they were tooheavy. Grimly, bitterly, relentlessly, he began forcing usefulnessback into his arms by flexing his fingers over and over, thenmaking fists--until finally he could raise his arms. Next hebegan struggling to pull himself up on his elbows, and once hesucceeded, he spent hours braced thus staring down at thebandaging over his stump. It seemed as big as a "punkin,"though it was less bloody than the previous bandagings hehad glimpsed as the tou- bob took them off. But when he tried

now to raise the knee of that same leg, he found that hecouldn't yet bear the pain. He took out his fury and hishumiliation on Bell when she came to visit him the next time,snarling at her in Mandinka and banging down the tin cup afterhe drank. Only later did he realize that it was the first timesince he arrived in toubob's land that he had spoken toanyone else aloud. It made him even more furious to recallthat her eyes had seemed warm despite his show of anger.One day, after Kunta had been there for nearly three weeks,the toubob motioned for him to sit up as he began to unwrapthe bandaging. As it came nearer to the foot, Kunta saw thecloth stickily discolored with a thick, yellowish matter. Then hehad to clamp his jaws as the tou- bob removed the final cloth--and Kunta's senses reeled when he saw the swollen heel halfof his foot covered with a hideous thick, brownish scab. Kuntaalmost screamed. Sprinkling something over the wound, thetoubob applied only a light, loose bandaging over it, thenpicked up his black bag and hurriedly left. For the next twodays. Bell repeated what the toubob had done, speakingsoftly as Kunta cringed and turned away. When the toubobreturned on the third day, Kunta's heart leaped when he sawhim carrying two stout straight sticks with forked tops; Kuntahad seen hurt people walk with them in Juffure. Bracing thestout forks under his arms, the toubob showed him how tohobble about swinging his right foot clear of the ground. Kuntarefused to move until they both left. Then he struggled to pullhimself upright, leaning against the wall of the hut until hecould endure the throbbing of his leg without falling down.Sweat was coursing down his face before he had

maneuvered the forks of the sticks underneath his armpits.Giddy, wavering, never moving far from the wall for support, hemanaged a few awkward, hopping forward swings of hisbody, the bandaged stump threatening his balance with everymovement. When Bell brought his breakfast the next morning,Kunta's glance caught the quick pleasure on her face at themarks made by the ends of the forked sticks in the hard dirtfloor. Kunta frowned at her, angry at himself for notremembering to wipe away those marks; He refused to touchthe food until the woman left, but then he ate it quickly, knowingthat he wanted its strength now. Within a few days, he washobbling freely about within the hut.

CHAPTER 51

In many ways, this toubob farm was very different from the lastone, Kunta began to discover the first time he was able to getto the hut's doorway on his crutches and stand looking aroundoutside. The black people's low cabins were all neatlywhitewashed, and they seemed to be in far better condition,as was the one that he was in. It contained a small, bare table,a wall shelf on which were a tin plate, a drinking gourd, a"spoon," and those toubob eating utensils for which Kunta hadfinally learned the names: a "fork" and a "knife"; he thought itstupid for them to let him have such things within his reach.And his sleeping mat on the floor had a thicker stuffing ofcom- shucks. Some of the huts he saw nearby even had smallgarden plots behind them, and the one closest to the tou-bob's big house had a colorful, circular flower patch growing in

front of it. From where he stood in the doorway, Kunta couldsee anyone walking in any direction, and whenever he did, hewould quickly crutch back inside and remain there for sometime before venturing back to the doorway. Kunta's noselocated the outhouse. Each day, he held back his urges untilhe knew that most of them were out at their tasks in the fields,and then--carefully making sure that no one was nearby--hewould go crutching quickly across the short distance to makeuse of the place, and then get safely back. It was a couple ofweeks before Kunta began to make brief ventures beyondthat nearby hut, and the hut of slave row's cooking woman,who wasn't Bell, he was surprised to discover. As soon as hewas well enough to get around. Bell had stopped bringing himhis meals--or even visiting. He wondered what had become ofher--until one day, as he was standing in his doorway, hecaught sight of her coming out the back door of the big house.But either she didn't see him or she pretended not to, as shewalked right past him on her way to the outhouse. So she wasjust like the others after all; he had known it all along. Lessoften, Kunta caught glimpses of the tall tou- bob, who wasusually getting into a black-covered buggy that would then gohurrying away, with its two horses being driven by a black whosat on a seat up front. After a few more days, Kunta began tostay outside his hut even when the field workers returned inthe evening, shambling along in a tired group. Rememberingthe other farm he had been on, he wondered why these blackones weren't being followed by some toubob with a whip on ahorse. They passed by Kunta--without seeming to pay him anyattention at all--and disappeared into their huts. But within a

few moments most of them were back outside again goingabout their chores. The men did things around the barn, thewomen milked cows and fed chickens. And the childrenlugged buckets of water and as much firewood as their armscould carry; they were obviously unaware that twice as muchcould be carried if they would bundle the wood and balance it,or the water buckets, on their heads. As the days passed, hebegan to see that although these black ones lived better thanthose on the previous toubob farm, they seemed to have nomore realization than the others that they were a lost tribe, thatany kind of respect or appreciation for themselves had beensqueezed out of them so thoroughly that they seemed to feelthat their lives were as they should be. All they seemed to beconcerned about was not getting beaten, having enough toeat and somewhere to sleep. There weren't many nights thatKunta finally managed to fall asleep before lying awakeburning with fury at the misery of his people. But they didn'teven seem to know that they were miserable. So whatbusiness was it of his if these people seemed to be satisfiedwith their pathetic lot? He lay feeling as if a little more of himwas dying every day, that while any will to live was left to him,he should try to escape yet again, whatever the odds or theconsequences. What good touch the food until the woman left,but then he ate it quickly, knowing that he wanted its strengthnow. Within a few days, he was hobbling freely about withinthe but.

CHAPTER 51

In many ways, this toubob farm was very different from the lastone, Kunta began to discover the first time he was able to getto the hut's doorway on his crutches and stand looking aroundoutside. The black people's low cabins were all neatlywhitewashed, and they seemed to be in far better condition,as was the one that he was in. It contained a small, bare table,a wall shelf on which were a tin plate, a drinking gourd, a"spoon," and those toubob eating utensils for which Kunta hadfinally learned the names: a "fork" and a "knife"; he thought itstupid for them to let him have such things within his reach.And his sleeping mat on the floor had a thicker stuffing ofcorn- shucks. Some of the huts he saw nearby even had smallgarden plots behind them, and the one closest to the tou-bob's big house had a colorful, circular flower patch growing infront of it. From where he stood in the doorway, Kunta couldsee anyone walking in any direction, and whenever he did, hewould quickly crutch back inside and remain there for sometime before venturing back to the doorway. Kunta's noselocated the outhouse. Each day, he held back his urges untilhe knew that most of them were out at their tasks in the fields,and then--carefully making sure that no one was nearby--hewould go crutching quickly across the short distance to makeuse of the place, and then get safely back. It was a couple ofweeks before Kunta began to make brief ventures beyondthat nearby hut, and the hut of slave row's cooking woman,who wasn't Bell, he was surprised to discover. As soon as hewas well enough to get around. Bell had stopped bringing himhis meals--or even visiting. He wondered what had become ofher--until one day, as he was standing in his doorway, he

caught sight of her coming out the back door of the big house.But either she didn't see him or she pretended not to, as shewalked right past him on her way to the outhouse. So she wasjust like the others after all; he had known it all along. Lessoften, Kunta caught glimpses of the tall tou- bob, who wasusually getting into a black-covered buggy that would then gohurrying away, with its two horses being driven by a black whosat on a seat up front. After a few more days, Kunta began tostay outside his hut even when the field workers returned inthe evening, shambling along in a tired group. Rememberingthe other farm he had been on, he wondered why these blackones weren't being followed by some toubob with a whip on ahorse. They passed by Kunta--without seeming to pay him anyattention at all--and disappeared into their huts. But within afew moments most of them were back outside again goingabout their chores. The men did things around the barn, thewomen milked cows and fed chickens. And the childrenlugged buckets of water and as much firewood as their armscould carry; they were obviously unaware that twice as muchcould be carried if they would bundle the wood and balance it,or the water buckets, on their heads. As the days passed, hebegan to see that although these black ones lived better thanthose on the previous toubob farm, they seemed to have nomore realization than the others that they were a lost tribe, thatany kind of respect or appreciation for themselves had beensqueezed out of them so thoroughly that they seemed to feelthat their lives were as they should be. All they seemed to beconcerned about was not getting beaten, having enough toeat and somewhere to sleep. There weren't many nights that

Kunta finally managed to fall asleep before lying awakeburning with fury at the misery of his people. But they didn'teven seem to know that they were miserable. So whatbusiness was it of his if these people seemed to be satisfiedwith their pathetic lot? He lay feeling as if a little more of himwas dying every day, that while any will to live was left to him,he should try to escape yet again, whatever the odds or theconsequences. What good was he anymore--alive or dead? Inthe twelve moons since he was snatched from Juffure--howmuch older than his rains he had become. It didn't helpmatters any that no one seemed to have found any kind ofuseful work for Kunta to do, though he was getting around ablyenough on his crutches. He managed to convey theimpression that he was occupied sufficiently by himself andthat he had no need or desire to associate with anybody. ButKunta sensed that the other blacks didn't trust him any morethan he trusted them. Alone in the nights, though, he was solonely and depressed, spending hours staring up into thedarkness, that he felt as if he were falling in upon himself. Itwas like a sickness spreading within him. He was amazedand ashamed to realize that he felt the need for love. Kuntahappened to be outside one day when the tou- bob's buggyrolled into the yard with the black driver's seat shared by aman of sasso borro color. When the tou- bob got out and wentinto the big house, the buggy came on nearer the huts andstopped again. Kunta saw the driver grasp the brown oneunder his arms to help him descend, for one of his handsseemed to be encased in what looked like hardened whitemud. Kunta had no idea what it was, but it seemed likely that

the hand was injured in some way. Reaching back into thebuggy with his good hand, the brown one took out an oddlyshaped dark box and then followed the driver down the row ofhuts to the one at the end that Kunta knew was empty. Kuntawas so filled with curiosity that in the morning he made it hisbusiness to hobble down to that hut. He hadn't expected tofind the brown one seated just inside his doorway. They simplylooked at each other. The man's face and eyes wereexpressionless. And so was his voice when he said "What youwant?" Kunta had no idea what he was saying. "You one adem African niggers." Kunta recognized that word he'd heardso often, but not the rest. He just stood there. "Well, git on,den!" Kunta heard the sharpness, sensed the dismissal. Heall but stumbled, wheeling around, and went crutching in angryembarrassment back on up to his own hut. He grew so furiousevery time he thought about that brown one that he wished heknew enough of the toubob tongue to go and shout, "At leastI'm black, not brown like you! " From that day on, Kuntawouldn't look in the direction of that hut whenever he wasoutside. But he couldn't quell his curiosity about the fact thatafter each evening's meal, most of the other blacks hastenedto gather at that last hut. And, listening intently from within hisown doorway, Kunta could hear the voice of the brown onetalking almost steadily. Sometimes the others burst intolaughter, and at intervals he could hear them barraging himwith questions. Who or what was he, Kunta ached to know. Inmidafternoon about two weeks later, the brown one chancedto be emerging from the privy at the very moment Kunta wasapproaching it. The brown one's bulky white arm covering was

gone, and his hands were plaiting two corn shucks as thefurious Kunta rapidly crutched on past. Sitting inside, Kunta'shead whirled with the insults he wished he could haveexpressed. When he came back outside, the brown one wascalmly standing there, his matter-of-fact expression as ifnothing had ever happened between them. Still twisting andplaiting corn shucks between his fingers, he beckoned withhis head for Kunta to follow him. It was so totally unexpected--and disarming--that Kunta found himself following the brownone back to his cabin without a word. Obediently, Kunta satdown on the stool the brown one pointed to and watched ashis host seated himself on the other stool, still plaiting. Kuntawondered if he knew that he was plaiting much the same asAfricans did. After a while more of reflective silence, the brownone began speaking: "I been hearin' 'bout you so mad. Youlucky dey ain't kilt you. Dey could of, an' been inside de law.Jes' like when dat white man broke my hand 'cause I got tiredof fiddlin'. Law say anybody catch you 'scapin' can kill you andno punishment for him. Dat law gits read out again eve'y sixmonths in white folks' churches. Looka here, don't start me onwhite folks' laws. Startin' up a new settlement, dey firs' builds acourthouse, fo' passin' more laws; nex' buildin's a church toprove dey's Christians. I b'lieve all dat Virginia's House ofBurgess do is pass more laws 'against niggers. It's a lawniggers can't carry no gun, even no stick that look like a club.Law say twenty lashes you get caught widdout a travelin' pass,ten lashes ifn you looks white folks in dey eyes, thirty lashesif'n you raises your hand 'against a white Christian. Law sayno nigger preachin' less'n a white man dere to listen; law say

can't be no nigger funeral if dey think it's a meetin'. Law saycut your ear off ifn white folks swear you lied, both ears if deyclaim you lied twice. Law say you kill anybody white, you hang;kill not her nigger, you jes' gits whipped. Law say reward aIndian Catchin' a 'scaped nigger wid all de tobacco dat Indiancan carry. Law 'against teachin' any nigger to read or write, orgivin' any nigger any book. Dey's even a law 'against niggersbeatin' any drums any dat African stuff. " Kunta sensed that thebrown one knew he couldn't understand, but that he both likedto talk and feel that Kunta's listening might somehow bring himat least closer to comprehension. Looking at the brown one'sface as he spoke, and listening to his tone, Kunta felt healmost could understand. And it made him want to both laughand cry that someone was actually talking to him as onehuman being to another. "Bout your foot, looka here, it ain't jes'foots and arms but dicks an' nuts gits cut off. I seen plentyruined niggers like dat still workin'. Seen niggers beat till meatcut off dey bones. Nigger womens full of baby gits beat lyin'face down over a hole dug for dey bellies. Niggers gitsscraped raw, den covered with turpentine or salt, den rubbedwid straw. Niggers caught talkin' 'bout revolt made to danceon hot embers tildey falls. Ain't hardly nothin' ain't done toniggers, an' if dey die 'cause of it, ain't no crime long as dey'sowned by whoever done it, or had it done. Dat's de law. An' ifyou thinks dat's bad, you ought to hear what folks tell gits didto dem niggers dat some slave boats sells crost the water ondem West Indies sugar plantations. " Kunta was still therelistening and trying to understand when a first-kafo-sized boycame in with the brown one's evening meal. When he saw

Kunta there, he dashed out and soon returned with a coveredplate for him, too. Kunta and the brown one wordlessly atetogether, and then Kunta abruptly rose to leave, knowing thatthe others would soon be coming to the hut, but the brownone's gesture signaled Kunta to stay. As the others beganarriving a few minutes later, none were able to mask theirsurprise at seeing Kunta there particularly Bell, who was oneof the last to show up. Like most of the rest, she simplynodded--but with the trace of a smile, it seemed to Kunta. Inthe gathering darkness, the brown one proceeded to holdforth for the group as he had done for Kunta, who guessedthat he was telling them some kind of stories. Kunta could tellwhen a story ended, for abruptly they would all laugh--or askquestions. Now and then Kunta recognized some of the wordsthat had become familiar to his ears. When he went back tohis own hut, Kunta was in a turmoil of emotion about minglingwith these black ones. Sleepless late that night, his mind stilltumbling with conflicts, he recalled something Omoro had saidonce when Kunta had refused to let go of a choice mangoafter Lamin begged for a bite: "When you clench your fist, noone can put anything in your hand, nor can your hand pick upanything." But he also knew that his father would be in thefullest of agreement with him that, no matter what, he mustnever become anything like these black people. Yet eachnight, he felt strangely drawn to go among them at the hut ofthe brown one. He resisted the temptation, but almost everyafternoon now, Kunta would hobble over to visit with the brownone when he was alone. "Git my fingers back to workin' rightto fiddle again," he said while weaving his corn shucks one

day. "Any kin of luck, dis massa here go 'head an' buy me an'hire me out. I done fiddled all over Virginia, make good moneyfor him an' me both. Ain't much I ain't seen an' done, even ifnyou don't know what I'm talkin' 'bout. White folks says allAfricans knows is livin' in grass huts an runnin' 'roun' killin' an'eatin' one not her He paused in his monologue, as ifexpecting some kind of reaction, but Kunta just sat therewatching and listening impassively and fingering his sap hiecharm. "See what I mean? You got to put away all dat stuff,"said the brown one, pointing to the charm. "Give it up. Youain't going' nowheres, so you might's well face facks an' startfittin' in, Toby, you hear?" Kunta's face flashed with anger."Kunta Kinte!" he blurted, astonished at himself. The brownone was equally amazed. "Looka here, he can talk! But I'mtellin' you, boy, you got to for git all dat African talk. Make whitefolks mad an' scare niggers. Yo' name Toby. Dey calls meFiddler. " He pointed to himself. " Say dat. Fiddler! " Kuntalooked at him blankly, though he understood exactly what Bemeant. "Fiddler! I's a fiddler. Understan'--fiddler?" He made asawing motion across his left arm with the other hand. Thistime Kunta wasn't pretending when he looked blank.Exasperated, the brown one got up and brought from a cornerthe oddly shaped box that Kunta had seen him arrive with.Opening it, he lifted out an even more oddly shaped lightbrown wooden thing with a slender black neck and four taut,thin strings running almost its length. It was the same musicalinstrument he had heard the old man play at the other farm."Fiddle!" exclaimed the brown one. Since they were alone,Kunta decided to say it. He repeated the sound: "Piddle."

Looking pleased, the brown one put the fiddle away andclosed the case. Then, glancing around, he pointed. "Bucket!"Kunta repeated it, fixing in his head what that thing was. "Now,water!" Kunta repeated it. After they had gone through a scoreor more of new words, the brown one pointed silently at thefiddle, the bucket, water, chair, corn shucks and other objects,his face a question mark for Kunta to repeat the right wordsfor all of them. A few of the names he promptly repeated; hefumbled with a few others and was corrected; and somesounds he was unable to say at all. The brown one refreshedhim on those, then reviewed him on them all. "You ain't dumbas you looks," he grunted by suppertime. The lessonscontinued through the following days and stretched intoweeks. To Kunta's astonishment, he began to discover that hewas becoming able not only to understand but also to makehimself understood to the brown one in a rudimentary way.And the main thing he wanted him to understand was why herefused to surrender his name or his heritage, and why hewould rather die a free man on the run than live out his life as aslave. He didn't have the words to tell it as he wished, but heknew the brown one understood, for he frowned and shook hishead. One afternoon not long afterward, arriving at the brownone's hut, Kunta found another visitor already there. It was theold man he'd seen now and then hoeing in the flower gardennear the big house. With a glance at the brown one's affirmingnod, Kunta sat down. The old man began to speak. "Fiddlerhere tell me you run away four times. You see what it got you.Jes' hopes you done learned your lesson like I done. "Causeyou ain't done nothin' new. My young days, I run off so much

dey near 'bout tore my hide off 'fore I got it in my head ain'tnowhere to run to. Run two states away, dey jes' tell about it indey papers an' sooner later you gits cotched an nearly kilt, an'win' up right back where you come from. Ain't hardly nobodyain't thought about runnin'. De grin- run' est niggers thinksabout it. But ain't nobody I ever knowed ever got away. Timeyou settled down and made de best of things de way dey is,'stead of wastin' yo' young years, like I did, plottin' what cain'tbe done. I done got of an wore out now. Reckon since youbeen born I been actin' like de no-good, lazy, shiftless, head-scratchin' nigger white folks says us is. Only reason massakeep me here, he know I ain't got no good auction value, an'he git more out of me jes' halfway doin' de gardenin'. But Ihears tell from Bell massa gwine put you to workin' wid metomorrow. " Knowing that Kunta had understood hardly any ofwhat the gardener had said, the fiddler spent the next half hourexplaining what the old man had told him--only slowly andmore simply, in words Kunta was familiar with. He had mixedfeelings about nearly everything the gardener had said. Heunderstood that the old man meant well by his advice--and hewas beginning to believe that escape was indeed impossible--but even if he never got away, he could never pay the price ofgiving up who and what he had been born in order to live outhis years without another beating. And the thought of spendingthem as a crippled gardener filled him with rage andhumiliation. But perhaps just for a while, until he got hisstrength back. And it might be good to get his mind off himselfand his hands in the soil again--even if it wasn't his own. Thenext day, the old gardener showed Kunta what to do. As he

chopped away at the weeds that seemed to spring up dailyamong the vegetables, so did Kunta. As he plucked tomatoworms and potato bugs from the plants and squashed themunderfoot, so did Kunta. They got along well, but apart fromworking side by side, they didn't communicate much, either.Usually the old man would only make grunts and gestureswhenever Kunta needed to be shown how to do some newtask, and Kunta, without responding, simply did as he wastold. He didn't mind the silence; as a matter of fact, his earsneeded a few hours' rest each day between conversationswith the fiddler, who ran his mouth every minute they weretogether. That night after the evening meal, Kunta was sittingin the doorway of his hut when the man called Gildon--whomade the horse and mule collars and also shod the blackpeople--walked up to him and held out a pair of shoes. At theorders of the "massa," he said he had made them especiallyfor Kunta. Taking them and nodding his thanks, Kunta turnedthem over and over in his hands before deciding to try themon. It felt strange to have such things | on his feet, but they fitperfectly--even though the front: half of the right shoe wasstuffed with cotton. The shoe-? maker bent down to tie thelacings, then suggested that Kunta get up and walk around inthem to see how they. " felt. The left shoe was fine, but he felttiny stinging sensations in his right foot as he walkedawkwardly and gingerly around outside his hut without thecrutches. Seeing his discomfort, the shoemaker said that wasbecause of the T stump, not the shoe, and he would get usedto it.; Later that day, Kunta walked a bit farther, testing, but theright foot was still uncomfortable, so he removed a little of the

cotton stuffing and put it back on. It felt better, and finally hedared to put his full weight on that foot,: and there wasn't anyundue pain. Every now and then he would continue toexperience the phantom pain of his right toes aching, as hehad nearly every day since he: started walking around, and hewould glance downward--always with surprise--to find that hedidn't have any. But he kept practicing walking around, andfeeling better than he let his face show; he had been afraidthat he would always have to walk with crutches. That sameweek the massa's buggy returned from a trip, and the blackdriver, Luther, hurried to Kunta's hut, beckoning him down tothe fiddler's, where Kunta watched him say something,grinning broadly. Then with gestures toward the big house andwith selected key words, the fiddler made Kunta nod inunderstanding that Massa William Waller, the toubob wholived in the big house, now owned Kunta. "Luther say he justgot a deed to you from his brother who had you at first, so youhis now." As usual, Kunta did not let his face show his feelings.He was angry and ashamed that anyone could "own" him; buthe was also deeply relieved, for he had feared that one day hewould be taken back to that other "plantation," as he nowknew the toubob farms were called. The fiddler waited untilLuther had left before he spoke again--partly to Kunta andpartly to himself. "Niggers here say Massa William a goodmaster, an' I seen worse. But ain't none of 'em no good. Deyall lives off us niggers. Niggers is the biggest thing dey got."

CHAPTER 52

Almost every day now, when work was done, Kunta Wouldreturn to his hut and after his evening prayer would scratch upthe dirt in a little square on his floor and draw Arabiccharacters in it with a stick, then sit looking for a long time atwhat he had written, often until supper. Then he would rub outwhat he had written, and it would be time to go down and sitamong the others as the fiddler talked. Somehow his prayingand his studying made it all right to mix with them. That way, itseemed to him he could remain himself without having toremain by himself. Anyway, if they had been in Africa, therewould have been someone like the fiddler to go to, only hewould have been a wandering musician and griot travelingfrom one village to the next and singing as he played his koraor his balafon in between the telling of fascinating storiesdrawn from his adventures. Just as it had been done in Africa,Kunta had also begun to keep track of the passing of time bydropping a small pebble into a gourd on the morning aftereach new moon. First he had dropped into the gourd 12rounded, multicolored stones for the 12 moons he guessedhe'd spent on the first toubob farm; then he had dropped in sixmore for the time he'd been here on this new farm; and thenhe had carefully counted out 204 stones for the 17 rains he'dreached when he was taken from Juffure, and dropped theminto the gourd. Adding them all up, he figured that he was nowinto his nineteenth rain. So as old as he felt, he was still ayoung man. Would he spend the rest of his life here, as thegardener had, watching hope and pride slip away along withthe years, until there was nothing left to live for and time hadfinally run out? The thought filled him with dread--and

determination not to end up the way the old man had,doddering around in his plot, uncertain which foot to putbefore the other. The poor man was worn out long before themidday meal, and through the afternoons he was only able topretend that he was working at all, and Kunta had to shoulderalmost all the load. Every morning, as Kunta bent over hisrows. Bell would come with her basket--Kunta had learnedthat she was the cook in the big house--to pick the vegetablesshe wanted to fix for the massa that day. But the whole timeshe was there, she never so much as looked at Kunta, evenwhen she walked right past him. It puzzled and irritated him,remembering how she had attended him daily when he layfighting to survive, and how she would nod at him during theevenings at the fiddler's. He decided that he hated her, thatthe only reason she had acted as his nurse back then wasbecause the massa had ordered her to do it. Kunta wishedthat he could hear whatever the fiddler might have to sayabout this matter, but he knew that his limited command ofwords wouldn't allow him to express it right--apart from the factthat even asking would be too embarrassing. One morning notlong afterward, the old man didn't come to the garden, andKunta guessed that he must be sick. He had seemed evenmore feeble than usual for the past few days. Rather thangoing right away to the old man's hut to check on him, Kuntawent straight to work watering and weeding, for he knew thatBell was due at any moment, and he didn't think it would befitting for her to find no one there when she arrived. A fewminutes later she showed up and, still without looking atKunta, went about her business, filling her basket with

vegetables as Kunta stood holding his hoe and watching her.Then, as she started to leave, Bell hesitated, looked around,set the basket on the ground, and--throwing a quick, hardglance at Kunta--marched off. Her message was clear that heshould bring her basket to the back door of the big house, asthe old man had always done. Kunta all but exploded withrage, his mind flashing an image of dozens of Juffure womenbearing their head loads in a line past the bantaba tree whereJuffure's men always rested. Slamming down his hoe, he wasabout to stamp away when he remembered how close shewas to the massa. Gritting his teeth, he bent over, seized thebasket, and followed silently after Bell. At the door, she turnedaround and took the basket as if she didn't even see him. Hereturned to the garden seething. From that day on, Kuntamore or less became the gardener. The old man, who wasvery sick, came only now and then, whenever he was strongenough to walk. He would do a little something for as long ashe felt able, which wasn't very long, and then hobble back tohis hut He reminded Kunta of the old people back in Juffurewho, ashamed of their weakness, continued to totter aboutmaking the motions of working until they were forced to retreatto their pallets, and finally were rarely seen out any more at all.The only new duty Kunta really hated was having to carry thatbasket for Bell every day. Muttering under his breath, he wouldfollow her to the door, thrust it, into her hands as rudely as hedared, then turn on his heel and march back to work, as fastas he could go. As much as he detested her, though, hismouth would water when now and then the air would waft tothe garden the tantalizing smells of the things that Bell was

cooking. He had dropped the twenty-second pebble into hiscalendar gourd when--without any outward sign of change--Bell beckoned him on into the house one morning. After amoment's hesitation, he followed her inside and set thebasket on a table there. Trying not to look amazed at thestrange things he saw everywhere around him in this room,which they called the "kitchen," he was turning to leave whenshe touched him on the arm and handed him a biscuit withwhat looked like a piece of cold beef between the slices. Ashe stared at it in puzzlement, she said, "Ain't you never seed asan'wich befo'? It ain't gonna bite you. You s'posed to bite it.Now git on outa here." As time went on. Bell began to give himmore than he could carry in his hand--usually a tin plate piledwith something called "cornpone,"a kind of bread he hadnever tasted before, along with boiled fresh mustard greens intheir own delicious pot liquor He had sown the mustard's tinyseeds himself--in garden soil mixed with rich black dirt dugfrom the cow pasture--and the tender greens had swiftly,luxuriously sprung up. He loved no less the way she cookedthe long, slender field peas that grew on the vines coilingaround the sweet corn's stalks. She never gave him anyobvious meat of the pig, though he wasn't sure how she knewthat. But whatever she gave him, he would always wipe off theplate carefully with a rag before returning it. Most often hewould find her at her "stove"--a thing of iron that contained fire--but sometimes she would be on her knees scrubbing thekitchen floor with oak ashes and a hard-bristled brush. Thoughat times he wanted to say something to her, he could nevermuster a better expression of his appreciation than a grunt--

which now she returned. One Sunday after supper, Kunta hadgotten up to stretch his legs and was walking around thefiddler's hut idly patting himself on the belly when the brownone, who had been talking steadily all through the meal,interrupted his monologue to exclaim, "Looka here, youstartin' to fill out!" He was right. Kunta hadn't looked--or felt--better since he left Juffure. After months of incessant plaitingto strengthen his fingers, the fiddler, too, felt better than he hadin a long time--since his hand was broken--and in theevenings he had begun to play the instrument again. Holdingthe peculiar thing in his cupped hand and under his chin, thefiddler raked its strings with his wand--which seemed to bemade of long, fine hairs--and the usual evening audiencewould shout and break into applause when each song hadfinished. "Dat ain't nothin'!" he would say disgustedly. "Fingersain't nimble yet." Later, when they were alone, Kunta askedhaltingly, "What is nimble?" The fiddler flexed and wiggled hisfingers. "Nimblel Nimble. Get it?" Kunta nodded. "You a luckynigger, what you is," the fiddler went on. "Jes' piddlin' 'roun'eve'yday in dat garden. Ain't hardly nobody got a job dat sof'cept on plantations whole lot bigger'n dis." Kunta thought heunderstood, and he didn't like it "Work hard," he said. Andnodding at the fiddler in his chair, he added, "Harder clan dat."The fiddler grinned. "You awright, African!"

CHAPTER 53

The "months," as they called moons here, were passing morequickly now, and before long the hot season known as

"summer" was over and harvest time had begun along with agreat many more duties for Kunta and the others. While therest of the blacks--even Bell--were busy with the heavy workout in the fields, he was expected to tend the chickens, thelivestock, and the pigs in addition to his garden. And at theheight of the cotton picking, he was called upon to drive thewagon along the rows. Except for having to feed the filthyswine, which almost made him ill, Kunta didn't mind the extrawork, for it made him feel less of a cripple. But it was seldomthat he got back to his hut before dark--so tired out that hesometimes even forgot to eat his supper. Taking off nothingbut his frayed straw hat and his shoes--to relieve the aching ofhis half foot--he would flop down on his corn shuck mattress,pulling his quilt of cotton-stuffed burlap up over him, and withinmoments he would be sound asleep, in clothes still wet withsweat. Soon the wagons were piled high with cotton, then withplump ears of corn, and the golden tobacco leaves werehanging up to dry. The hogs had been killed, cut into pieces,and hung over slowly burning hickory, and the smoky air wasturning cold when everyone on the plantation began preparingfor the "harvest dance," an occasion so important that eventhe massa would be there. Such was their excitement thatwhen Kunta found out that the black people's Allah didn't seemto be involved, he decided to attend himself--but just to watch.By the time he got up the courage to join the party, it was wellunder way. The fiddler, whose fingers were finally nimbleagain, was sawing away at his strings, and another man wasclacking two beef bones together to keep time as someoneshouted, "Cakewalk!" Dancers coupled off and hurried out

before the fiddler. Each woman put her foot on the man's kneewhile he tied her shoestring; then the fiddler sang out,"Change partners!" and when they did, he began to playmadly, and Kunta saw that the dancers' footsteps and bodymotions were imitating their planting of the crops, thechopping of wood, the picking of cotton, the swinging ofscythes, the pulling of corn, the pitch forking of hay intowagons. It was all so much like the harvest dancing back inJuffure that Kunta's good foot was soon tapping away on theground--until he realized what he was doing and lookedaround, embarrassed, to see if anyone had noticed.. But noone had. At that moment, in fact, almost everyone had begunto watch a slender fourth-kafo girl who was dipping andwhirling around as light as a feather, her head tossing, hereyes rolling, her arms describing graceful patterns. Soon theother dancers, exhausted, were moving to the sides to catchtheir breaths and stare; even her partner was hard put to keepup. When he quit, gasping, a shout went up, and when finallyeven she went stumbling toward the sidelines, a whoopingand hollering engulfed her. The cheering got even louder whenMassa Waller awarded that girl a half- dollar prize. Andsmiling broadly at the fiddler, who grinned and bowed inreturn, the massa left them amid more shouting. But thecakewalk was far from over, and the other couples, rested bynow, rushed back out and went on as before, seemingly readyto dance all night. Kunta was lying on his mattress thinkingabout what he had heard and seen when suddenly there camea rapping at his door. "Who dat?" he demanded, astonished,for only twice had anyone ever come to his hut in all the time

he'd lived there. "Kick dis do' in, nigger!" Kunta opened thedoor, for it was the voice of the fiddler; instantly he smelled theliquor on his breath. Though he was repelled, Kunta saidnothing, for the fiddler was bursting to talk, and it would havebeen unkind to turn him away just because he was drunk. "Youseen massa!" said the fiddler. "He ain't knowed I could playdat good! Now you watch an' see if'n he don't 'range for me toplay for white folks to hear me, an' den hire me out!" Besidehimself with happiness, the fiddler sat on Kunta's three-leggedstool, fiddle across his lap, and went on babbling. "Lookahere, I second fiddled with the best! You ever hear of Sy Gilliatfrom Richmond?" He hesitated. "Naw, 'course you ain't! Well,dat's de'fiddlin'est slave nigger in de worl', and I fiddled widhim. Looka here, he play for nothin' but big white folks' ballsan' dances, I mean like the Hoss Racin' Ball every year, andlike dat. You oughta see him wid dat gold-painted fiddle of hisan' him wearin' court dress wid his brown wig an' Lawd, demmanners! Nigger name London Briggs behin' us playin' flutean' clarinet! De minuets, de reels, de congos, hornpipes, jigs,even jes' caperin' 'bout--don't care what it was, we'd have demwhite folks dancin' up a storm! " The fiddler carried on like thisfor the next hour--until the alcohol wore off--telling Kunta of thefamous singing slaves who worked in Richmond's tobaccofactories; of other widely known slave musicians who playedthe "harpsichord," the "pianoforte," and the "violin"--whateverthey were--who had learned to play by listening to toubobmusicians from someplace called "Europe," who had beenhired to come to plantations to teach the mass as children.The following crispy cold morning saw the starting of new

tasks. Kunta watched as the women mixed hot melted tallowwith woo dash lye and water, boiling and stirring, then coolingthe thick brown mixture in wooden trays to let it set for fournights and three days before they cut it into oblong cakes ofhard, brown soap. To his complete distaste, he saw menfermenting apples, peaches, and persimmons into somethingfoul-smelling that they called "brandy," which they put intobottles and barrels. Others mixed gluey red clay, water, anddried hog hair to press into cracks that had appeared in theirhuts. Women stuffed some mattresses with corn shucks likeKunta's, and some others with the moss he had seen drying;and a new mattress for the massa was filled with goosefeathers. The slave who built things from wood was makingnew tubs in which clothes would be soaked in soapy waterbefore being boiled and lumped onto a wooden block to bebeaten with a stick. The man who made things with leather--horse collars, harnesses, and shoes--was now busily tanningcows' hides. And women were dyeing into different colors thewhite cotton cloth the massa had bought to make clothes with.And just as it was in Juffure, all of the nearby vines, bushes,and fences were draped with drying cloths of red, yellow, andblue. With each passing day, the air became colder andcolder, the sky grayer and grayer, until soon the ground wascovered once again with snow and ice that Kunta found asunpleasant as it was extraordinary. And before long the otherblacks were beginning to talk with great excitement about"Christmas," which he had heard of before. It seemed to haveto do with singing, dancing, eating, and the giving of gifts,which sounded fine--but it also seemed to involve their Allah,

so even though Kunta really enjoyed by now the gatherings atthe fiddler's, he decided it would be best to stay to himselfuntil the pagan festivities were safely over. He didn't even visitthe fiddler, who looked curiously at Kunta the next time he sawhim, but said nothing about it. Thence swiftly came anotherspringtime season, and as he knelt planting among his rows,Kunta remembered how lush the fields around Juffure alwayslooked at this time of year. And he recalled as a second-kafoboy how happily he had gone prancing out behind the hungrygoats in this green season. Here in this place the black"young'uns" were helping to chase and catch the baaaing,bounding "sheep," as the animals were called, and thenfighting over whose turn was next to sit on the head of adesperately struggling sheep while a man snipped off thethick, dirty wool with a pair of shears. The fiddler explained toKunta that the wool would be taken off somewhere to becleaned and "carded into bats," which then would be returnedfor the women to spin woolen thread from which they wouldweave cloth for the making of winter clothes. The garden'splowing, planting, and cultivating went by for Kunta in asweating blur of dawns to darks. Early in the mid-summermonth they called "July," those who worked out in the fieldswould return exhausted to their huts every night as theypressed to complete the last hoeing of grass from around thewaist-high cotton and corn that was heavy with tasseledheads. It was hard work, but at least there was plenty to eat inthe storehouses that had been filled to overflowing the pastfall. At this time in Juffure, Kunta thought, the people'sstomachs would be aching as they made soup from roots,

grub worms grass, and anything else they could find, becausethe crops and fruits so lushly green were not yet ripe. The"laying by" had to be finished before the second "Sunday" inJuly, Kunta learned, when the blacks from most of theplantations in this area--which was called "SpotsylvaniaCounty"--would be permitted to travel someplace to join insome kind of "camp meetin'." Since, whatever it was, it had todo with their Allah, no one even suggested that Kunta go alongwith the more than twenty of them who left very early thatSunday morning, packed into a wagon whose use MassaWaller had approved. Nearly everyone was gone for the nextfew days--so many that few would have been there to notice ifKunta had tried to run away again--but he knew that eventhough he had learned to get around all right and makehimself fairly useful, he would never be able to get very farbefore some slave catcher caught up with him again. Thoughit shamed him to admit it, he had begun to prefer life as hewas allowed to live it here on this plantation to the certainty ofbeing captured and probably killed if he tried to escape again.Deep in his heart, he knew he would never see his homeagain, and he could feel something precious and irretrievabledying inside of him forever. But hope remained alive; thoughhe might never see his family again, perhaps someday hemight be able to have one of his own.

CHAPTER 54

Another year had passed--so fast that Kunta could hardlybelieve it--and the stones in his gourd told him that he had

reached his twentieth rain. It was cold again, and "Christmas"was once more in the air. Though he felt the same as healways had about the black ones' Allah, they were having sucha good time that he began to feel his own Allah would have noobjection to his merely observing the activities that went onduring this festive season. Two of the men, having receivedweek-long traveling passes from Massa Waller, were packingto go and visit their mates living on other plantations; one ofthe men was going to see a new baby for the first time. Butevery hut except theirs--and Kunta's--was busy with some kindof preparations, chiefly the fixing up of party clothes with laceand beads, and the taking of nuts and apples from theirstorage places. And up in the big house, all of Bell's pots andpans were bubbling with yams and rabbits and roast pig--andmany dishes made from animals Kunta had never seen orheard of until he came to this country: turkey, 'coons,'possums, and the like. Though he was hesitant at first, thesucculent smells from her kitchen soon persuaded Kunta to tryeverything--except for pig, of course. Nor was he interested insampling the liquor Massa Waller had promised for the blackones: two barrels of hard cider, one of wine, and a keg ofwhiskey he had brought in his buggy from somewhere else.Kunta could tell that some of the liquor was being quietlyconsumed in advance, no little of it by the fiddler. And alongwith the drinkers' antics, the black children were runningaround holding dried hog bladders on sticks closer and closerto fires until each one burst with a loud bang amid generallaughing and shouting. He thought it was all unbelievablystupid and disgusting. When the day finally came, the drinking

and eating began in earnest. From the door of his hut, Kuntawatched as guests of Massa Waller's arrived for the middayfeast, and afterward as the slaves assembled close by the bighouse and began to sing, led by Bell, he saw the massa raisethe window, smiling; then he and the other white folks cameoutside and stood listening, seeming to be enthralled. Afterthat the massa sent Bell tq tell the fiddler to come and play forthem, which he did. Kunta could understand their having to dowhat they were told, but why did they seem to enjoy it somuch? And if the whites were so fond of their slaves that theygave them presents, why didn't they make them really happyand set them free? But he wondered if some of these blacks,like pets, would be able to survive, as he could, unless theywere taken care of. But was he any better than they were?Was he all that different? Slowly but surely, he couldn't denythat he was easing into acceptance of their ways. He wasmost troubled about his deepening friendship with the fiddler.His drinking of liquor deeply offended Kunta, and yet had not apagan the right to be a pagan? The fiddler's boastfulness alsobothered Kunta, yet he believed that all the fiddler hadboasted of was true. But the fiddler's crude and irreverentsense of humor, was distasteful to him; and Kunta had cometo dislike intensely hearing the fiddler call him "nigger," sincehe had learned that it was the white man's name for blacks.But had it not been the fiddler who had taken it upon himself toteach him to talk? Was it not he whose friendship had made iteasier for him to feel less of a stranger with the other blacks?Kunta decided that he wanted to know the fiddler better.Whenever the proper time came, in the best roundabout way

he could, he would ask the fiddler about some of thequestions that were in his mind. But two more pebbles hadbeen dropped into his gourd before one quiet Sundayafternoon, when no one was working, he went down to thefamiliar last hut on slave row, and found the fiddler in a rarequiet mood. After exchanging greetings, they were both silentfor a time. Then, just to make conversation, Kunta said he hadoverheard the massa's driver, Luther, say that white folks weretalking about "taxes" wherever he drove the massa. Whatwere taxes, anyway, he wanted to know. "Taxes is money gotto be paid extry on near 'bout anything white folks buys,"replied the fiddler. "Dat king 'crost de water puts on de taxesto keep him rich." It was so unlike the fiddler to be so brief thatKunta figured he must be in a bad mood. Discouraged, he satthere for a while in silence, but finally he decided to spit outwhat was really on his mind: "Where you was 'fo' here?" Thefiddler stared at him for a long, tense moment. Then he spoke,his voice cutting. "I know every nigger here figgerin' 'bout me!Wouldn't tell nobody else nothin'! But you diff'rent. " He glaredat Kunta. "You know how come you diff'rent? " Cause youdon't know nothin'! You done got snatched over here, an' gotyour foot cut, you thinks you been through all dey is! Well, youain't de only one had it bad. " His voice was angry. "You evertells what I'm gonna tell you, I'll catch you upside de head!" "Iain't!" Kunta declared. The fiddler leaned forward and spokesoftly so as not to be overheard. "Massa I had in No'th Ca'linagot drowned. Ain't nobody's bid ness how. Anyway, same nightI lit out, an' he ain't had no wife or young'uns to claim me. I hidout with Injuns 'til I figured it was safe to leave an' git here to

Virginia an' keep on fiddlin'." "What "Virginia'?" asked Kunta."Man, you really don't know nothin', does you? Virginia thecolony you livin' in, if you want to call dis livin'." "What's acolony?" "You even dumber'n you look. Dey's thirteen coloniesthat go to make up this country. Down south of here there's theCa'linas, and up north they's Maryland, Pennsylvania, NewYork, and a bunch of others. I ain't never been up dere, an'neither has most niggers. I hear tell lotta white folks up deredon't hold with slavery and sets us folk free. Myself, I'm kind ofa half-free nigger. I have to be roun' some massa 'case pattyrollers ever catches me. " Kunta didn't understand, but heacted as if he did, since he didn't feel like getting insultedagain. "You ever seen Injuns?" the fiddler demanded. Kuntahesitated. "I seen some." "Dey was here 'fo' white folks. Whitefolks tell you one of dem name Columbus discover dis place.But if he found' Injuns here, he ain't discover it, is he?" Thefiddler was warming to his subject. "White man figger whoeversomewhere 'fore him don't count. He call dem savages." Thefiddler paused to appreciate his wit, and then went on. "Youever seen Injuns' tee pees Kunta shook his head no. Thefiddler enclosed three of his spread fingers within a small rag."De fingers is poles an' de rag is hides. Dey lives inside dat."He smiled. "Being' from Africa, you prob'ly thinks you knowsall dey is 'bout hunting' and like that, but ain't nobody hunts ortravels good as Injuns. Once one go somewhere it's a map inhis head how he went. But Injun mammies--dey calls 'emsquaws--carries dey young'uns on dey backs, like I hearsy'all's mammies does in Africa. " Kunta was surprised that thefiddler knew that, and ouldn't help showing it. The fiddler

smiled again and continued the lesson. "Some Injuns hatesniggers, an' some likes us. Niggers an' lan' is Injuns' bigtroubles with white folks. White folks wants all the Injuns' landand hates Injuns what hides niggers!" The fiddler's eyessearched Kunta's face. "Y'all Africans and Injuns made desame mistake--lettin' white folks into where you live. Youoffered him to eat and sleep, then first thing you know hekickin' you out or lockin' you up!" The fiddler paused again.Then suddenly he burst out: "What put me out with you Africanniggers, looka here! I knowed five or six ack like you! Don'tknow how come I took up wid you in de firs' place! You git overhere figgerin' niggers here ought to be like you is! How you'spec we gon' know 'bout Africa? We ain't never been dere,an' ain't going' neither!" Glaring at Kunta, be lapsed intosilence. And fearful of provoking another outburst, Kunta soonleft without another word, rocked onto his heels by what thefiddler had said to him. But the more he thought about it backin his hut, the better he felt about it. The fiddler had taken offhis mask; that meant he was beginning to trust Kunta. For thefirst time in his acquaintance with anyone in the three rainssince he had been stolen from his homeland, Kunta wasactually beginning to know someone.

CHAPTER 55

Over the next several days, as he worked in the garden, Kuntathought a great deal about how long it had taken him to realizehow little he really knew about the fiddler, and about how muchmore there was to know about him. Almost certainly, he

reflected, no less of a mask was still being worn for him by theold gardener, whom Kunta had been going to visit now andthen. And he didn't know Bell much better, though he and shehad some daily exchange of talk--or rather, Kunta mostlylistened while he ate whatever food she gave him; but it wasalways about small and, impersonal matters. It occurred tohim how both Bell and the gardener had sometimes started tosay something, or hinted at something, but then neverfinished. They were both cautious people in general, but itseemed they were especially so with him. He decided to getto know them both better. On his next visit to the old gardener,Kunta began in his indirect Mandinka way by asking aboutsomething the fiddler had told him. Kunta said he had heardabout patty rollers but he was uncertain who or what theywere. "Dey's low-down po' white trash dat ain't never owned anigger in dey lives!" the old gardener said heatedly. "It's a of'Virginia law to patrol de roads, or anywhere else niggers is,an' whip an' jail any of 'em gits cotched widdout a writ-outpass from dey massa. An' who gits hired to do it is dem po'whites what jes' loves cot ching an' beatin' somebody else'sniggers 'cause dey ain't got none. What's behind it,y'understan', all white folks scared to death dat any loosenigger is plannin' a re-volt. Fact, ain't nothin' patty rollers lovesmore'n claimin' to suspicion some nigger, an' bustin' in an'strippin' him buck naked right before his wife an' young'uns an'beatin' him bloody. ", Seeing Kunta's interest, and pleased byhis visit, the old gardener went on: " Massa we got don't'prove a dat. It's how come he don't have no oberseer. He sayhe don't want nobody beatin' his niggers. He tells his niggers

to obersee deyselves, jes' do de work like dey know to, an'don't never break none a his rules. He swear sun won't sethere on no nigger break his rules. " Kunta wondered what therules were, but the gardener kept on talking. "Reason massalike he is 'cause he of a family was rich even 'fore dey comehere from dat England 'crost de water. Dem Wallers alwaysbeen what most mass as jes' tries to act like dey is. "Causemost of dese mass as ain't nothin' but coon hunters what gothole of a piece of lan' an' one or two niggers dey worked halfto death, an' jes' kep' on growin' from dat. "Ain't manyplantations got a whole lot of slaves. Mos' of 'em jes' maybeanywhere from one to five or six niggers. Us twenty here makedis one pretty big. Two out of every three white folks ain't gotno slaves at all, dat's what I beared. Real big plantations withfifty or a hunnud slaves is mostly where de black dirt is; demriver bottoms like in Louisiana, Miss'ippi, an' Alabama gotsome, too; an' dem coasts a Geo'gia an' South Ca'lina wheredey grows rice." "How of' you?" Kunta asked abruptly. Thegardener looked at him. "Older'n you or anybody else thinks Iis." He sat as if musing for a moment. "I beared the Indians'war whoopin' when I was a chile." After a silent moment withhis head -down, he glanced up at Kunta and began singing,"Ah yah, tair umbam, boowah"--Kunta sat astounded. "Kee layzee day nic olay, man lun dee nic o lay ah wah nee" Stopping,the old man said, "My mammy used to sing dat. Say she got itfrom her mammy, who come from Africa, same as you did.You know by dem sounds where she come from?" "Soun' likeSerere tribe," said Kunta. "But I don't know dem words. Ibeared Serere spoke on the boat what brung me." The old

gardener looked furtively around. "Gon' shut up wid dat singin'.Some nigger hear it an' tell massa. White folks don' want noniggers talkin' no African." Kunta had been about to say thatthere was no question the old man was a fellow Gambian, ofWolof blood, with their high noses and flat lips and skins evendeeper black than most other Gambian tribes. But when thegardener said what he said, he decided it was better not tospeak of such things. So he changed the subject, askingwhere the old man was from and how he had ended up on thisplantation. The gardener didn't answer right away. But finally,he said, "Nigger suffered a lot like I is learn a lot," and helooked carefully at Kunta, appearing to be deciding whether ornot to go on. "I were a good man once. I could ben' a crowbarover my leg. I could lit a sack of meal dat would fell a mule. Or Icould lif a grown man by he belt wif my arm straight out. But Igot worked an' beat near 'bout to death 'fo' my massa whatdone it sign me over to dis massa to pay a bill." He paused."Now I done got enfeebled, I jes' wants to res' out whatevertime I got let."

His eyes searched Kunta,

"Sho' don' know how come I'm tellin' you dis. I ain't really badoff as I ack. But massa won't sell me long as he think I'm badoff. I seen you caught on how to garden some, though." Hehesitated. "I could git back out dere an he'p ifn you wants meto--but not too much. I jes' ain't much good no mo'," he saidsadly. Kunta thanked the old man for offering, but reassuredhim that he'd be able to get along fine. A few minutes later he

excused himself, and on his way back to his hut, got angrywith himself for not feeling more compassion toward the oldman. He was sorry he had been through so much, but hecouldn't help turning a cold ear toward anyone who just rolledover and gave up. The very next day, Kunta decided to see ifhe could get Bell talking too. Since he knew that Massa Wallerwas her favorite subject, he began by asking why he wasn'tmarried. "Him sho' was married--him an' Miss Priscilla, sameyear I come here. She was pretty as a hummin'bird. Wasn'thardly no bigger'n one, neither. Dat's how come she diedbirthin' dey first baby. Was a little gal; it died, too. Terriblesttime I guess anybody ever seen 'roun' here. An' massa ain'tnever been "the same man since. Jes' work, work, work,seem like sometime he tryin' to kill his self He cain't bear tothink a nobody sick or hurt he can he'p. Massa would doctor asick cat quick as he would some hurt nigger he hear 'bout, likedat fiddler you always talkin' to--or like when you was brunghere. He got so mad 'bout how dey done your foot, he evenbought you away from his own brother John. "Co'se wunt hisdoin', it was dem po' cracker nigger catchers he hired, whosay you tried to kill 'em." Kunta listened, realizing that just ashe was only beginning to appreciate the individual depths anddimensions of the black ones, it had never occurred to himthat even white folks could also have human sufferings, thoughtheir ways in general could never be forgiven. He foundhimself wishing that he could speak the white folks' tonguewell enough to say all this to Bell--and to tell her the story hisold grandmother Nyo Boto had told him about the boy whotried to help the trapped crocodile, the story Nyo Boto always

ended with, "In the world, the payment for good is often bad."Thinking of home reminded Kunta of something he'd beenwanting to tell Bell for a long time, and this seemed like agood moment. Except for her brown color, he told her proudly,she looked almost like a handsome Mandinka woman. Hedidn't have long to wait for her response to this greatcompliment. "What fool stuff you talkin' 'bout?" she said irately."Don' know how come white folks keep on emptyin' out boatloads a you Africa Diggers!"

CHAPTER 56

For the next month. Bell wouldn't speak to Kunta--and evencarried her own basket back to the big house after she hadcome for the vegetables. Then, early one Monday morning,she came rushing out to the garden, eyes wide withexcitement, and blurted, "Sheriff jes' rid off! He tol' massabeen some big fightin' up Nawth somewhere call Boston! It'sdem white folks so mad 'bout dem king's taxes from 'crost debig water. Massa got Luther hitchin' de buggy to git to decounty seat. He sho' upset!" Suppertime found everyoneclustered around the fiddler's hut for his and the gardener'sopinions, the gardener being slave row's oldest person, thefiddler its best traveled and most worldly. "When it was?"somebody asked, and the gardener said, "Well, anything wehears from up Nawth got to of happened a while back."

The fiddler added,

"I beared dat from up roun' where dat Boston is, ten days is

de quickest dat fast bosses can git word here to Virginia." Inthe deepening dusk, the massa's buggy returned. Lutherhurried to slave row with further details he had picked up:"Dey's tellin' it dat one night some a dem Boston peoples gotso mad 'bout dem king's taxes dey marched on dat king'ssoldiers. Dem soldiers commence to shootin', an' firs' one kiltwas a nigger name a Cdspus Attucks. Dey callin' it "DeBoston Massacree'!" Little else was talked of for the next fewdays, as Kunta listened, unsure what it was all about and whywhite folks--and even the blacks--were so agog aboutwhatever was happening so far away. Hardly a day passedwithout two or three passing slaves "Yooo-hooo-ah-hoooing"from the big road with a new rumor. And Luther kept bringingregular reports from house slaves, stable hands and otherdrivers he talked with on every journey the massa made toattend sick people or to discuss what was going on in NewEngland with other mass as in their big houses, or the countyseat or nearby towns. "White folks ain't got no secrets," thefiddler said to Kunta. "Dey's swamped deyselves wid niggers.Ain't much dey do, hardly nowheres dey go, it ain't niggerslistenin'. If dey eatin' an' talkin', nigger gal servin' 'em actia'dumber'n she is, 'memberin' eve'y word she hear. Even whenwhite folks gits so scared dey starts spellin' out words, if anyniggers roun', well, plenty house niggers ain't long repeatin' itletter for letter to de nearest nigger what can spell an' piecetogether what was said. I mean dem niggers don' sleep 'foredey knows what dem white folks was talkin' 'bout. " What washappening "up Nawth" continued to arrive piece by piecethrough the summer and into the fall. Then, as time passed,

Luther began to report that as exercised as white folks wereabout the taxes, that wasn't their only worry. "Dey's sayin' it'ssome counties got twice many niggers as white folks. Dey'sworryin' dat king 'crost the water might start offerin' us niggersfreedom to fight 'against dese white folks." Luther waited forthe gasps of his audience to subside. "Fact," he said, "donebeared some white folks so scared, done took to lockin' deydoors at night, done even quit talkin' roun' dey house niggers."K-until lay on his mattress at night for weeks afterward thinkingabout "freedom." As far as he could tell, it meant having nomassa at all, doing as one wanted, going wherever onepleased. But it was ridiculous, he decided finally, to think thatwhite folks would bring blacks all the way across the big waterto work as slaves--and then set them free. It would neverhappen. Shortly before Christmas, some of Massa Waller'srelatives arrived for a visit, and their black buggy driver waseating his fill in Bell's kitchen while regaling her with the latestnews. "Done beared datover in Geo'gia," he said, "niggername a George Leile, de Baptis' white folks done give 'im alicense to preach to niggers up an' down de Savannah River.Hear de claim he gon' start a African Baptis' church inSavannah. First time I heard 'bout any nigger church... "Bellsaid, "I heard 'bout one 'fo' now in Petersburg, right here inVirginia. But tell me, you beared anythin' about de white folks'troubles up Nawth?" "Well, I hear tell while back whole lottaimpo'tant white folks had a big meetin' in dat Philadelphia.Dey call it de First Continental Congress." Bell said she badheard that. In fact, she had painstakingly read it in MassaWaller's Virginia Gazette, and then she had shared the

information with the old gardener and the fiddler. They werethe only ones who knew she could read a little. When they hadspoken about it recently, the gardener and the fiddler hadagreed that Kunta shouldn't be told of her ability. True, heknew how to keep his mouth shut, and he had come tounderstand and express things unexpectedly well for anyonefrom Africa, but they felt that he couldn't yet fully appreciatehow serious the consequences would be if the massa got theslightest hint that she could read: He would sell her away thatsame day. By early the next year--1775--almost no news fromany source was without some further development inPhiladelphia. Even from what Kunta heard and couldunderstand, it was clear that the white folks were movingtoward a crisis with the king across the big water in the placecalled England. And there was a lot of exclaiming about someMassa Patrick Henry having cried out, "Give me liberty or giveme death!" Kunta liked that, but he couldn't understand howsomebody white could say it; white folks looked pretty free tohim. Within a month came news that two whites namedWilliam Dawes and Paul Revere had raced on horses to warnsomebody of hundreds of king's soldiers heading forsomewhere called "Concord" to destroy rifles and bullets thatwere stored there. And soon afterward they heard that in afurious battle at "Lexington," some "Minutemen" had lost onlya handful while killing over two hundred king's soldiers.Scarcely two days later came word that yet another thousandof them had fallen in a bloody battle at a place called "BunkerHill." "White folks at the county seat is laughin', sayin' demking's soldiers wears red coats not to show de blood," said

Luther. "Heared some a dat blood getting' spilt by niggersfightin' long side white folks." Wherever he went now, he said,he kept on hearing that Virginia mass as were showinggreater than usual signs of mistrust toward their slaves"--evendey oldest house niggers!" Relishing his new importancealong slave row, Luther arrived home from a trip in June to findan anxious audience awaiting his latest news. "It's someMassa George Washington got picked to run a army. Niggertol' me he's beared he got a big plantation wid plenty a slaves." He said he had also heard that some New England slaveshad been set free to help fight the king's redcoats. "I knowedit!" the fiddler exclaimed. "Niggers gon' git dragged in it an'kilt, jes' like dat French an' Indian War. Den soon's it's over,white folks be right back whippin' niggers!" "Maybe not," saidLuther. "Heared some white folks call themselves Quakersdone put together a AntiSlavery Society, up in datPhiladelphia. Reckon dey's some white folks jes' don't believein niggers being' slaves." "Me neither," put in the fiddler. Thefrequent bits of news that Bell contributed would sound as ifshe had been discussing them with the massa himself, butshe finally admitted that she had been listening at the keyholeof the dining room whenever the massa had guests, for notlong ago he had curtly told her to serve them and leaveimmediately, closing the door behind her; then she had heardhim lock it "An' I knows dat man bettern his mammy!" shemuttered indignantly. "What he say in dere after he lock dedo'?" asked the fiddler impatiently. "Well, tonight he say don'tseem no way not to fight dem English folks. He speck deygon' send big boat loads a soldiers over here. He say it's over

two hunnud thousand slaves just in Virginia, an' de biggestworry is if dem Englishmans ever riles up us niggers 'againstwhite folks. Massa say he feel loyal to de king as any man, butain't nobody can stan' dem taxes." "Gen'l Washington donestopped 'em taking any more niggers in the Army," saidLuther, "but some free niggers up Nawth is arguin' dey's partof dis country an' wants to fight." "Dey sho' gon' git deychance, jes' let 'enough white folks git kilt," said the fiddler."Dem free niggers is crazy." But the news that followed twoweeks later was even bigger. Lord Dunmore, the royalgovernor of Virginia, had proclaimed freedom for slaves whowould leave their plantations to serve on his English fleet offishing boats and frigates. "Massa fit to be tied," reportedBell. "Man come to dinner say lotta talk 'bout ehainin' or jailin'slaves suspicioned a joinin' up--or even thinkin' 'bout it--an'maybe kidnapin' an' hangin' dat Lord Dunmore." Kunta hadbeen given the job of watering and feeding the horses of theflushed, agitated mass as who visited the grim-jawed MassaWaller. And Kunta told how some of the horses had sweat-soaked flanks from long, hard riding, and how some of themass as were even driving their own buggies. One of them,he told the others, was John Waller, the massa's brother, theman who had bought Kunta when they took him off the boateight years before. After all that time, he had known that hatedface at first glance, but the man had tossed the reins to Kuntawith no apparent recognition. "Don' ack so surprised," saidthe fiddler. "Massa like him ain't gone say howdy to no nigger."Specially if'n he 'members who you is." Over the next fewweeks. Bell learned at the keyhole of the massa's and his

visitors' alarm and fury that thousands of Georgia, SouthCarolina, and Virginia slaves were said to be boldly fleeingtheir plantations to join Lord Dunmore. Some said they hadheard that most of the fleeing slaves were simply heading forthe North. But all the whites agreed on the need to startbreeding more bloodhounds. Then one day Massa Wallercalled Bell into the living room and twice read slowly aloud amarked item in his Virginia Gazette. He ordered Bell to showit to the slaves, and handed the paper to her. She did as shewas told, and they reacted just as she had--less with fear thananger. "Be not, ye Negroes, tempted to ruin yourselves. . .whether we suffer or not, if you desert us, you most certainlywill. " Before returning the Gazette, Bell spelled out for her owninformation several other news items in the privacy of hercabin, and among them were reports of actual or predictedslave revolts. Later the massa shouted at her for not returningthe paper before supper, and Bell apologized in tears. Butsoon she was sent out again with another message--this timethe news that Virginia's House of Burgesses had decreed"death without benefit of clergy for all Negro or other slavesconspiring to rebel or make insurrections." "What do it mean?" a field hand asked, and the fiddler replied, "Uprise, an' whitefolks won't call no preacher when dey kills you!" Luther heardthat some white folks called "'lories," and some other kindcalled "Scotchmen," were joining with the English. "An'sheriff's nigger tol' me dat Lord Dunmore's ruinin' riverplantations, burnin' big houses, an' tellin' de niggers he free'em if'n dey come on an' jine 'im. " Luther; told how in Yorktownand other towns, any blacks caught out at night were being

whipped and jailed. ; Christmas that year was but a word.Lord Dunmore was reported to have barely outraced a mobonto the safety of his flagship. And a week later came theincredible news. that Dunmore, with his fleet off Norfolk, hadordered the city emptied within one hour. Then his guns begana bombardment that set raging fires, and much of Norfolk had.been reduced to ashes. In what was left, Bell reported, '. waterand food were scarce, and fever had broken out, ', killing somany that Hampton Roads' waters were dotted; with bloatedbodies drifting ashore with the tides. "Say dey's buryin' 'em insan' and mud," said Luther. "An' lotta niggers near 'boutstarvin' an' scared to death on dem English boats." Mullingover all these terrible events, Kunta felt that in someunfathomable way, all of this suffering must have somemeaning, some reason, that Allah must have willed it.Whatever was going to happen next, both to black and white,must be His design. It was early in 1776 when Kunta and theothers heard that a General Cornwallis had come fromEngland with boatfuls of sailors and soldiers trying to cross abig "York River," but a great storm had scattered the boats.They heard next that another Continental Congress had met,with a group of mass as from Virginia moving for completeseparation from the English. Then two months of minor newspassed before Luther returned from the county seat with thenews that after another meeting on July 4, "All the white folks Iseen is jes' carryin' on! Somethin' 'bout some Decoration aInd'pen'ence. Heared 'em say Massa John Hancock done writhis name real big so the king wouldn't have to strain none tosee it." On his next trips to the county seat, Luther returned

with accounts he had heard that in Baltimore, a life-sized ragdoll "king" had been carted through the streets, then throwninto a bonfire surrounded by white people shouting "Tyrant!Tyrant!" And in Richmond, rifles had been fired in volleys asshouting white people waved their torches and drank toasts toeach other. Along the subdued slave row, the old gardenersaid, "Ain't nothin' neither way for niggers to holler 'bout.England or here, dey's all white folks." Later that summer. Bellbustled over to slave row with news from a dinner guest thatthe House of Burgesses had just recently passed an act that"say dey gon' take niggers in the Army as drummers, fifers, orpioneers." "What's pioneers?" asked a field hand. "It mean gitstuck up front an' git kilt!" said the fiddler. Luther soon broughthome an exciting account of a big battle right there in Virginiathat had slaves fighting on both sides. Amid a hail of musketballs from hundreds of redcoats and Tories, along with agroup of convicts and blacks, a smaller force of white"Colonials" and their blacks was driven across a bridge, but inthe rear a slave soldier named Billy Flora had ripped up andhurled away enough planks from the bridge that the Englishforces had to stop and withdraw, saving the day for theColonial forces. "Rip up a bridge! Dat musta been somestrong nigger!" the gardener exclaimed. When the Frenchentered the war on the Colonial side in 1778, Bell relayedreports that one state after another was authorizing theenlisting of slaves with the promise of freedom when the warwas won. "Now ain't but two states lef dat say dey ain't gon'never let niggers fight, dat's South Ca'lina an' Geo'gia." "Datde only thing good I ever beared 'bout neither one a dem!"

said the fiddler. As much as he hated slavery, it seemed toKuhta that no good could come of the white folks giving gunsto blacks. First of all, the whites would always have more gunsthan the blacks, so any attempt to revolt would end in defeat.And he thought about how in his own homeland, guns andbullets had been given by the toubob to evil chiefs and kings,until blacks were fighting blacks, village against village, andselling those they conquered--their own people--into chains.Once Bell heard the massa say that as many as five thousandblacks, both free and slave, were in the fighting that was goingon, and Luther regularly brought stories of blacks fighting anddying alongside their mass as Luther also told of some all-black companies from "up Nawth," even one all-blackbattalion called "The Bucks of America " Even dey colonel is anigger," said Luther. "His name Middleton." He looked archlyat the fiddler. "You won't never guess what he is!" "What youmean?" said the fiddler. "He a fiddler, too! An' it's time to dosome fiddlin'!" Then Luther hummed and sang a new song hehad heard in the county seat. The catchiness of it was easy topick up, and soon others were singing it, and still othersbeating time with sticks. "Yankee Doodle came to town, ridin'on a pony...." And when the fiddler started playing, the slaverow young'uns began to dance and clap their hands. With Mayof 1781 came the astounding story that redcoats on horseshad ruined Massa Thomas Jefferson's plantation calledMonticello. The crops had been destroyed, the barn burned,the livestock run off, and all the horses and thirty slaves hadbeen taken. "White folks sayin' Virginia got to be saved,"Luther reported, and soon after he told of white joy because

General Washington's army was headed there. "An' niggers aplenty is in it!" October brought reports that the combinedforces of Washington and Lafayette had poured shot and shellinto -Yorktown, attacking England's Cornwallis. And they soonlearned of other battles raging in Virginia, New York, NorthCarolina Maryland, and other states. Then in the third week ofthe month came the news that set even slave row shouting:"Cornwallis done surrendered! War am ober! Freedom amwon!" Luther barely had time to sleep between buggy journeysnow, and the massa was even smiling again--for the first timein years, said Bell. "Ev'ywhere I's been, de niggers is hollerin'loud as white folks," said Luther. But he said that slaveseverywhere had rejoiced most over their special hero, "OFBilly" Flora, who had recently been discharged and carried hisfaithful musket back to Norfolk. "Y'all come here!" Bellshouted, summoning the others on slave row not long after."Massa jes' tol' me dey done named that Philadelphia firs'capital of Newnited States!" But it was Luther who told themlater, "Massa Jefferson done put up some kin' of ManumissionAck. It say mass as got de right to free niggers, but tell medem Quakers an' antislavery folks an' free niggers up Nawth ishollerin' an' going' on 'cause the Aek say mass as don't haveto, not less'n dey wants to." When General Washingtondisbanded the army early in November of 1783, formallyending what most people had begun calling "The SevenYears' War," Bell told everyone in slave row, "Massa say gon'be peace now." "Ain't gon' be no peace, not long as it's whitefolks," said the fiddler sourly, " 'cause ain't nothin' dey lovesbet- tern killin'." His glance flicked among the faces around

him. "Jes' watch what I tell you--it's gon' be worsen it was forus niggers." Kunta and the old gardener sat later talkingquietly. "You seen aplenty since you been here. How long it'sbeen, anyhow?" Kunta didn't know, and that troubled him. Thatnight, when he was alone, Kunta spent hours carefullyarranging into piles of twelve all of the multicolored pebblesthat he had dropped faithfully into his gourd with each newmoon. He was so stunned by what the stones finally told himthat the gardener never learned the answer to his question.Surrounding him there on the dirt floor of his hut wereseventeen piles of stones. He was thirty-four rains old! What inthe name of Allah had happened to his life? He had been inthe white man's land as long as he had lived in Juffure. Washe still an African, or had he become a "nigger," as the otherscalled themselves? Was he even a man? He was the sameage as his father when he had seen him last, yet he had nosons of his own, no wife, no family, no village, no people, nohomeland; almost no past at all that seemed real to himanymore--and no future he could see. It was as if The Gambiahad been a dream he'd had once long ago. Or was he stillasleep? And if he was, would he ever waken?

CHAPTER 57

Kunta didn't have long to brood about the future, for a fewdays later came news that took the plantation by storm. Acaptured runaway house girl reported Bell breathlessly afterthe sheriff arrived for a hushed meeting with the massa behindclosed doors, had admitted under a lashing that her crude

escape route had been drawn for her by none other than themassa's driver, Luther. Storming out to slave row beforeLuther could run away, Massa Waller confronted him with thesheriff and demanded angrily to know if it was true. Terrified,Luther admitted that it was. Red-faced with rage, the massalifted his arm to strike, but when Luther begged for mercy, helowered it again and stood there staring silently at Luther for along moment, tears of fury welling in his eyes. At last hespoke, very quietly: "Sheriff, put this man under arrest andtake him to jail. He is to be sold at the next slave auction." Andwithout another word he turned and walked back to the house,ignoring Luther's anguished sobs. Speculation had hardlybegun about who would be assigned to replace him as themassa's driver when Bell came out one night and told Kuntathat the massa wanted to see him right away. Everyonewatched--but no one was surprised--as he went Gripping intothe house behind Bell. Though he suspected why he had beencalled, Kunta felt a little scared, for he had never spoken to themassa or even been beyond Bell's kitchen in the big houseduring all his sixteen years on the plantation. As Bell led himthrough the kitchen into a hallway, his eyes goggled at theshining floor and the high, papered walls. She knocked at ahuge carved door. He heard the massa say, "Come in'" andBell went on inside, turning to beckon expressionlessly toKunta. He couldn't believe the size of the room; it seemed asbig as the inside of the barn. The polished oaken floor wascovered with rugs, and the walls were hung with paintings andtapestries. The richly dark, matched furniture was waxed, andlong rows of books sat on recessed shelves. Massa Waller

sat at a desk reading under an oil lamp with a circular shadeof greenish glass, and his finger held his place in his bookwhen, after a moment, he turned around to face Kunta. "Toby, Ineed a buggy driver. You've grown into a man on this place,and I believe you're loyal." His widely set blue eyes seemed topierce Kunta. "Bell tells me that you never drink. I like that, andI've noticed how you conduct yourself." Massa Waller paused.Bell shot a look at Kunta. "Yassuh, Massa," he said quickly."You know what happened to Luther?" the massa asked."Yassuh," said Kunta. The massa's eyes narrowed, and hisvoice turned cold and hard. "I'd sell you in a minute," he said."I'd sell Bell if you two had no better sense." As they stoodthere silently, the massa reopened his book. "All right, startdriving me tomorrow. I'm going to Newport. I'll show you theway until you learn." The massa glanced at Bell. "Get him theproper clothes. And tell the fiddler that he'll be replacing Tobyin the garden. " "Yassuh, Massa," Bell said, as she and Kuntaleft. Bell brought him the clothing, but it was the fiddler and theold gardener who supervised Kunta's dressing early the nextmorning in the starched and pressed canvas trousers andcotton hemp shirt. They didn't look too bad, but that blackstring tie they helped him put on next, he felt, made him lookridiculous. "Newport ain't nowhere to drive, jes' right up next toSpotsylvania Courthouse," said the old gardener. "It's one ade of Waller family big houses." The fiddler--who by this timehad been told of his own new duties as well as Kunta's--waswalking around inspecting him with an expression thatrevealed transparently both his pleasure and his jealousy. "Youa sho' nun special nigger now, no two ways 'bout it. Jes' don't

let it git to yo' head." It was unnecessary advice for one who--even after all this time--found no dignity in anything he wasmade to do for the white man. But whatever small excitementKunta felt at the prospect of being able to leave his gardenbehind and widen his horizons--as his uncles Janneh andSaloum had done--was soon forgotten in the heat of his newduties. Summoned by his patients at any hour of the day ornight, Massa Waller would call Kunta rushing from his hut tohitch the horses for breakneck rides to homes sometimesmany miles from the plantation down narrow, twisting roadsthat were hardly smoother than the countryside around them.Lurching and careening over ruts and potholes, laying on thewhip until the horses heaved for breath, Massa Waller clingingto his canopied rear seat, Kunta showed a knack for the reinsthat somehow saw them safely to their destination even in thespring thaw, when the red-clay roads turned into treacherousrivers of mud. Early one morning, the massa's brother Johncame galloping in, frantically reporting that his wife's laborpains had begun, although it was two months before the birthhad been expected. Massa John's horse was too exhaustedto return without rest, and Kunta had driven both of them backto Massa John's barely in the nick of time. Kunta's ownoverheated horses hadn't cooled down enough for him to givethem water when he heard the shrill cries of a newborn baby. Itwas a five-pound girl, the massa told him on their way home,and they were going to call her Anne. And so it went. Duringthat same frantic summer and fall, there was a plague of blackvomiting that claimed victims all over the county--so many thatMassa Waller and Kunta couldn't keep up with them, and soon

drove themselves into fever. Downing copious dosages ofquinine to keep them going, they saved more lives than theylost. But Kunta's own life became a blur of countless big-house kitchens, catnaps on pallets in strange huts or inhaymows, and endless hours of sitting in the buggy outsideshanties and grand homes listening to the same cries of painwhile he waited for the massa to reappear so that they couldreturn home--or more often drive on to the next patient. ButMassa Waller didn't travel always in the midst of crisis.Sometimes entire weeks would pass without anything moreurgent than routine house calls or visits to one of a seeminglyinexhaustible assortment of relatives and friends whoseplantations were located somewhere within driving distance.On such occasions--particularly in the spring and summer,when the meadows were thick with flowers, wild strawberries,and blackberry thickets, and the fences were trellised withlushly growing vines--the buggy would roll along leisurelybehind its finely matched pair of bay horses, Massa Wallersometimes nodding off under the black canopy that shieldedhim from the sun. Everywhere were quail whirring up, brilliantred cardinals hopping about, meadowlarks and whippoorwillscalling out. Now and then a bull snake sunning on the road,disturbed by the oncoming buggy, would go slithering forsafety, or a buzzard would go flapping heavily away from itsdead rabbit. But Kunta's favorite sight was a lonely old oak orcedar in the middle of a field; it would send his mind back tothe baobabs of Africa, and to the elders' saying that whereverone stood alone, there had once been a village. At such timeshe would think of Juffure. On his social calls, the massa went

most often to visit his parents at Enfield, their plantation on theborderline between King William County and King and QueenCounty. Approaching it--like all the Waller family big houses--the buggy would roll down a long double avenue of huge oldtrees and stop beneath a massive black walnut tree on thewide front lawn. The house, which was much bigger and richerlooking than the massa's, sat on a slight rise overlooking anarrow, slow-moving river. During his first few months ofdriving, the cooks at the various plantations in whose kitchensKunta was fed--but most especially Hattie Mae, the fat,haughty, shiny-black cook at Enfield--had eyed him critically,as fiercely possessive of their domains as Bell was at MassaWaller's. Confronted with Kunta's stiff dignity and reserve,though, none quite ventured to challenge him in any waydirectly, and he would silently clean his plate of whatever theyserved him, excepting any pork. Eventually, however, theybegan to get used to his quiet ways, and after his sixth orseventh visit, even the cook at Enfield apparently decided thathe was fit for her to talk to and deigned to speak to him. "Youknow where you at?" she asked him suddenly one day in themiddle of his meal. He didn't answer, and she didn't wait forone. "Dis here's de first Newnited States house of de Wallers.Nobody but Wallers lived here for a hunerd an' fifty years!"She said that when Enfield had been built it was only half itspresent size, but that later another house had been brought upfrom near the river and added on. "Our fireplace is bricksbrought in boats from England," she said proudly. Kuntanodded politely as she droned on, but he was impressed.Once in a while, Massa Waller would pay a visit to New- port,

Kunta's first destination as a driver; it seemed impossible tobelieve that an entire year had passed since then. An olduncle and aunt of the massa's lived there in a house thatlooked to Kunta very much like Enfield. While the white folksate in the dining room, the cook at New- port would feedKunta in the kitchen, strutting around with a large ring of keyson a thin leather belt around the top of her apron. He hadnoticed by now that every senior housemaid wore such a keyring. On it, he had learned, in addition to her keys for thepantry, the smokehouse, the cooling cellar, and other food-storage places, were the keys to all the rooms and closets inthe big house. Every cook he'd met would walk in a way tomake those keys jangle as a badge of how important andtrusted she was, but none jangled them louder than this one.On a recent visit, having decided--like the cook at En- field--that he might be all right after all, she pressed a finger to herUps and led Kunta on tiptoe to a small room farther within thebig house. Making a great show of unlocking the door withone of the keys at her waist, she led him inside and pointed toone wall. On it was a mounted display of what she explainedwere the Wallers' coat of arms, their silver seal, a suit ofarmor, silver pistols, a silver sword, and the prayer book of theoriginal Colonel Waller. Pleased at the ill-concealedamazement on Kunta's face, she exclaimed, "01' colonel builtdat Enfield, but he buried right here." And walking outside, sheshowed him the grave and its lettered tombstone. After aminute, as Kunta stared at it, she asked with a rehearsedcasualness, "You wanna know what it say?" Kunta nodded hishead, and rapidly she "read" the long since memorized

inscription: "Sacred to Memory of Colonel John Waller,Gentleman, third son of John Waller and Mary Key, whosettled in Virginia in 1635, from Newport Paganel,Buckinghamshire." Several cousins of massa's, Kunta soondiscovered, lived at Prospect Hill, also in Spotsylvania County.Like Enfield, the big house here was one and a half storieshigh, as were nearly all very old big houses, the cook atProspect Hill told him, because the king had put an extra taxon two- story houses. Unlike Enfield, Prospect Hill was rathersmall--smaller than the other Waller family houses--but none,she informed him, whether or not he cared to listen, had aswide an entrance hall or as steep a circular stairway. "You ain'tgwine upstairs, but no reason you cain't know us got four-poster canopy beds up dere so tall dey has to usestepladders, an' under dem is chill un trundle beds. An' lemmetell you sump'n. Dem beds, de chimney bricks, house beams,hinges on de do's, eve' anything usn's got in here was madeor did by slave niggers. " In the backyard, she showed Kuntathe first weaving house he had ever seen, and nearby werethe slave quarters--which were about the same as theirs--andbelow them was a pond, and farther beyond was a slaves'graveyard. "I knows you ain't want to see dat," she said,reading his thoughts. He wondered if she also knew howstrange and sad he found it to hear her talking--as so manyothers did--about "usn's," and acting as if she owned theplantation she lived on instead of the other way around.

CHAPTER 58

"How come massa been seem' so much a dat no-goodbrother a his las' few months?" asked Bell one evening afterKunta trudged in after arriving home from a visit to MassaJohn's plantation. "I thought they was no love los' 'tween demtwo." "Look to me like massa jes' gone crazy 'bout dat li'l of'gal baby dey got," said Kunta wearily. "She sho is a cute li'lthin'," said Bell. After a thoughtful pause, she added, "ReckonMissy Anne seem to massa like dat li'l gal of his own he los'."That hadn't occurred to Kunta, who still found it difficult to thinkof toubob as actual human beings. "She gon' be a whole yearof' dis November, ain't she?" asked Bell. Kunta shrugged. Allhe knew was that all this running back and forth between thetwo plantations was wearing ruts in the road--and in his rump.Even though he had no use for Massa John's sour-facedbuggy driver Roosby, he told Bell he was grateful for the restwhen the massa invited his brother to visit him for a changethe week before. As they were leaving that day. Bell recalled,the massa had looked as happy as his little niece when hetossed her in the air and caught her, squealing and laughing,before handing her up to her mother in the buggy. Kunta hadn'tnoticed and he didn't care--and he couldn't understand whyBell did. One afternoon a few days later, on their way homefrom a house call on one of Massa Waller's patients at aplantation not far from Newport, the massa called out sharplyto Kunta that he had just passed a turn they should have taken.Kunta had been driving without seeing, so shocked was he bywhat he had just seen at the patient's big house. Even as hemuttered an apology and turned the buggy hastily around, hecouldn't rid his mind of the sight of the heavy, very black,

Wolof-looking woman he had seen in the backyard. She hadbeen sitting on a stump, both of her large breasts hanging out,matter-of-factly suckling a white infant at one and a blackinfant at the other. It was a revolting sight to Kunta, and anastonishing one, but when he told the gardener about it later,the old man said, "Ain't hardly a massa in Virginia ain'tsucked a black mammy, or leas' was raised up by one."Almost as repulsive to Kunta was something he'd seen all toomuch of--the kind of demeaning "games" that went on at theplantations he visited between white and black "young'uns" ofabout the same age. The white children seemed to lovenothing more than playing "massa" and pretending to beat theblack ones, or playing "bosses" by climbing onto their backsand making them scramble about on all fours. Playing"school," the white children would "teach" the black to readand write, with many cuffings and shriekings about their"dumbness." Yet after lunch--which the black children wouldspend fanning the massa and his family with leafy branches tokeep flies away--the white and black children would lie downtogether and take naps on pallets. After seeing such things,Kunta would always tell Bell, the fiddler, and the gardener thathe'd never understand the toubob if he lived to a hundredrains. And they would always laugh and tell him that they'dseen this sort of thing--and more--all of their lives. Sometimes,they told him, as the white and black "young'uns" grew uptogether, they became very attached to one another. Bellrecalled two occasions when the massa had been called toattend white girls who had fallen ill when their lifelong blackplaymates had been sold away for some reason. Their mass

as and mistresses had been advised that their daughters'hysterical grief was such that they might well grow weaker andweaker until they died, unless their little girlfriends werequickly found and bought back. The fiddler said that a lot ofblack young'uns had learned to play the violin, theharpsichord, or other instruments by listening and observingas their white playmates were taught by music masters whomtheir rich mass as had hired from across the big water. Theold gardener said that on his second plantation a white andblack boy grew up together until finally the young massa tookthe black one off with him to William and Mary College. "CU'Massa ain't like it a'tall but 01' Missy say "It's his nigger if hewant to!" An' when dis nigger git back later on, he tol' us inslave row dat dey was heap more young mass as dere widdey niggers as valets, sleepin' right in de room wid 'em. Hesay heap of times dey take dey niggers wid 'em to classes,den dey argue later on whose nigger learnt demos Dat niggerfrom my plantation couldn't jes' read an' write, he could figger,too, an 'cite dem poems an' stuff dey has at colleges. I got sol'away roun' den. Wonder whatever become a him? " "Lucky ifhe ain't dead," the fiddler said. " " Cause white folks is quickto spic ion a nigger like dat be de first to hatch a uprisin' or are-volt somewhere. Don't pay to know too much, jes' like I tol'dis African here when he started drivin' massa. Mouf shut an'ears open, dafr's de way you learns demos"--Kunta found outhow true that was soon afterward, when Massa Waller offereda ride to a friend of his from one plantation to another. Talkingas if he wasn't there--and saying things that Kunta would havefound extraordinary even if they hadn't known there was a

black sitting right in front of them--they spoke about thefrustrating slowness of their slaves' separation of cotton fibersfrom the seeds by hand when demands for cotton cloth wererapidly increasing. They discussed how more and more, onlythe largest planters could afford to buy slaves at the robberyprices being demanded by the slave traders and slave-shipagents. "But even if you can afford it, bigness can create moreproblems than it solves," said the massa. "The more slavesyou've got, the likelier it is that some kind of revolt could befomented." "We should never have let them bear arms againstwhite men during the war," said his companion. "Now wewitness the result!" He went on to tell how, at a large plantationnear Fredericksburg, some former slave soldiers had beencaught just before a planned revolt, but only because ahousemaid had gotten some wind of it and told her mistress intears. "They had muskets, scythe blades, pitchforks, they hadeven made spears," said the massa's friend. "It's said theirplot was to kill and burn by night and hide by day and keepmoving. One of their ringleaders said they expected to die, butnot before they had done what the war had showed them theycould do to white people." "They could have cost manyinnocent lives," he heard the massa reply gravely. MassaWaller went on to say that he had read somewhere that overtwo hundred slave outbreaks had occurred since the firstslave ships came. "I've been saying for years that our greatestdanger is that slaves are coming to outnumber whites.""You're right!" his friend exclaimed. "You don't know who'sshuffling and grinning and planning to cut your throat. Even theones right in your house. You simply can't trust any of them. It's

in their very nature." His back as rigid as a board, Kuntaheard the massa say, "As a doctor, more than once I've seenwhite deaths that--well, I'll not go into details, but let's just sayI've thought some of them suspicious." Hardly feeling the reinsin his hands, Kunta was unable to comprehend that they couldseem so incredibly unaware of him. His mind tumbled withthings that he too had heard during the nearly two years nowthat he had been driving the. buggy for the massa. He hadheard many a whispering of cooks and maids grinning andbowing as they served food containing some of their ownbodily wastes. And he had been told of white folks' mealscontaining bits of ground glass, or arsenic, or other poisons.He had even heard stories about white babies going intomysterious fatal comas without any trace of the darningneedle that had been thrust by housemaids into their softheads where the hair was thickest. And a big-house cook hadpointed out to him the former hut of an old mammy nurse whohad been beaten badly and then sold away after severelyinjuring a young massa who had hit her. It seemed to Kuntathat black women here were even more defiant and rebelliousthan the men. But perhaps it only appeared that way becausethe women were more direct and personal about it; they wouldusually take revenge against white folks who had wrongedthem. The men tended to be more secretive and lessvengeful. The fiddler had told Kunta about a white overseerwho had been hanged from a tree by the father of a black girlhe had been caught raping; but violence against whites byblack men was most often ignited by news of white atrocitiesor slave rebellions and-the like. There had never been any

uprisings, or even any incidents, at the Waller place, but rightthere in Spotsylvania County, Kunta had heard about someblacks who had hidden muskets and other weapons andvowed to kill their mass as or mistresses, or both, and puttheir plantations to the torch. And there were some menamong those he worked with who would meet in secret todiscuss anything, good or bad that happened to slaveselsewhere and to consider any action they might take to help;but so far they had only talked. Kunta had never been invitedto join them--probably, he thought, because they felt that hisfoot would make him useless to them in an actual revolt.Whatever their reasons for leaving him out, he felt it was justas well. Though he wished them luck in whatever they mightderide to do, Kunta didn't believe that a rebellion could eversucceed against such overwhelming odds. Perhaps, asMassa Waller had said, blacks might soon outnumber whites,but they could never overpower them--not with pitchforks,kitchen knives, and stolen muskets against the massedarmies of the white nation and its cannons. But their worstenemy, it seemed to Kunta, was themselves. There were afew young rebels among them, but the vast majority of slaveswere the kind that did exactly what was expected of them,usually without even having to be told; the kind white folkscould--and did--trust with the lives of their own children; thekind that looked the other way when the white man took theirwomen into haymows. Why, there were some right there onthe plantation he was sure the massa could leave unguardedfor a year and find them there--still working--when he returned.It certainly wasn't because they were content; they complained

constantly among themselves. But never did more than ahandful so much as protest, let alone resist, j Perhaps he wasbecoming like them, Kunta thought. Or | perhaps he wassimply growing up. Or was he just growing old? He didn'tknow; but he knew that he had lost his taste for fighting andrunning, and he wanted to be left alone; he wanted to mind hisown business. Those who didn't had a way of winding updead.

CHAPTER 59

Dozing off in the shade of an oak tree in the backyard of aplantation where the massa was visiting to treat an entirefamily that had come down with a fever, Kunta woke up with astart when the evening conch horn blew to call the slaves infrom the fields. He was still rubbing the sleep from his eyeswhen they reached the yard. Glancing up as they passed byon their way to wash up for supper, he noticed that there wereabout twenty or thirty of them; He looked again. Maybe he wasstill sleeping, but four of them a man, a woman, and two teen-age boys were white. "Dey's what you call indentured whitefolks," his friend the cook explained when he expressed hisamazement to her a few minutes later. "Been here 'bout twomonths now. Dey's a fambly from someplace 'crost de bigwater. Massa pay dere way here on de boat, so dey gotta payhim back by workin' seben years as slaves. Den dey free jus'like any other white folks." "Dey live in slave row?" askedKunta. "Dey got dey own cabin off a ways from our'n, but it jus'as tumbledown as de res'. And dey eats de same mess we

does. An' don't get treated no different out in de fiel'." "Whatdey like?" asked Kunta. "Dey sticks pretty much to deyselves,but dey awright. Ain't like us'ns, but does dey job and don'tmake no trouble for nobody." It seemed to Kunta that thesewhite slaves were better off than most of the free whites he'dseen on the massa's rounds. With often as many as a dozengrownups and children packed on top of each other in one-room hovels on tiny patches of red clay or swampland, theyscratched out a living so meager that the blacks laughinglysang a song about them: "Not po' white, please, 0 Lawd, ferI'd rut her be a nigger." Though he had never seen it forhimself, Kunta had heard that some of these whites were sopoor that they even had to eat dirt. They were certainly skinnyenough, and few of them--even the "chilluns"--had any teethleft. And they smelled like they slept with their flea-bittenhounds, which many of them did. Trying to breathe through hismouth as he waited in the buggy outside their shacks whilethe massa treated one of them for scurvy or pellagra, watchingthe women and the children plowing and chopping while themenfolk lay under a, tree. with a brown jug of liquor and theirdogs, all scratching, it was easy for Kunta to understand whyplantation-owning mass as and even their slaves scorned andsneered at them as "lazy, shiftless, no-'count white trash." Infact, as far as he was concerned, that was a charitabledescription of heathens so shameless that they managed tocommit every conceivable offense against the standards ofdecency upheld by the most sacrilegious Moslem. On his tripswith the massa to neighboring towns, there would always bepacks of them idling around the courthouse or the saloon even

in the morning--dressed in their sweat- stained, greasy,threadbare castoffs, reeking of the filthy tobacco weed, whichthey puffed incessantly, swigging "white lightning" from bottlesthey carried in their pockets, laughing and yelling raucously atone another as they knelt on the ground in alleys playing cardsand dice for money. By midafternoon, they would be makingcomplete fools of themselves: bursting drunkenly into song,cavorting wildly up and down the street, whistling and callingout indecently to women who passed by, arguing and cursingloudly among themselves, and finally starting fights that wouldbegin with a shove or a punch--while huge crowds of otherslike them would gather 'round to cheer them on--and end withear-biting, eye-gouging, kicking of private parts, and bloodywounds that would almost always call for the massa's urgentattention. Even the wild animals of his homeland, it seemed toKunta, had more dignity than these creatures. Bell was alwaystelling stories about poor whites getting flogged for beatingtheir wives and being sentenced to a year's imprisonment forrape. Almost as often, she told about one of them stabbing orshooting another one to death; for that they might be forced toserve six months as a slave. But as much as they lovedviolence among themselves, Kunta knew from personalexperience that they loved violence against Black peopleeven more. It was a crowd of poor whites--male and female--that had hooted and jeered and jabbed with sticks at him andhis chain mates when they were taken from the big canoe. Itwas a poor-white overseer who had applied the lash so freelyto his back at Massa John's plantation. It was "cracker whitetrash" slave catchers who had taken such glee in chopping off

his foot. And he had heard about runaways captured by pattyrollers who hadn't given them the choice he'd gotten and sentthem back to their plantations torn and broken almost beyondrecognition--and divested of their manhood. He had neverbeen able to figure out why poor whites hated blacks so much.Perhaps, as the fiddler had told him, it was because of richwhites, who had everything they didn't: wealth, power, andproperty, including slaves who were fed, clothed, and housedwhile they struggled to stay alive. But he could feel no pity forthem, only a deep loathing that had turned icy cold with thepassing of the years since the swing of an ax held by one ofthem had ended forever something more precious to him thanhis own life: the hope of freedom. Later that summer of 1786,Kunta was returning to the plantation from the county seat withnews that filled him with mixed feelings. White folks had beengathering at every corner waving copies of the Gazette andtalking heatedly about a story in it that told of increasingnumbers of Quakers who were not only encouraging slaves toescape, as they had been doing for several years, but hadnow also begun aiding, hiding, and guiding them to safety inthe North. Poor whites and mass as alike were callingfuriously for the tarring and feathering, even hanging, of anyknown Quakers who might be even suspected of suchseditious acts. Kunta didn't believe the Quakers or anybodyelse would be able to help more than a few of them escape,and sooner or later they'd get caught themselves. But itcouldn't hurt to have white allies--they'd need them andanything that got their owners so frightened couldn't be all bad.Later that night, after Kunta told everyone in slave row what he

had seen and heard, the fiddler said that when he had beenplaying for a dance across the county the week before, he'dseen "dey moufs fallin' open" when he cocked an ear closeenough to overhear a lawyer there confiding to a group of bigplantation owners that the will of a wealthy Quaker namedJohn Pleasant had bequeathed freedom to his more than twohundred slaves. Bell, who arrived late, said that she had justoverheard Massa Waller and some dinner guests bitterlydiscussing the fact that slavery had recently been abolished ina northern state called "Massachusetts," and reports claimedthat other states near there would do the same. "What'bolished mean?" asked Kunta.

The old gardener replied,

"It mean one dese days all us niggers gon' be freel"

CHAPTER 60

Even when he didn't have anything he'd seen or heard in townto tell the others, Kunta had learned to enjoy sitting around thefire with them in front of the fiddler's hut. But lately he'd foundthat he was spending less time talking with the fiddler who hadonce been his only reason for being there than with Bell andthe old gardener. They hadn't exactly cooled toward oneanother, but things just weren't the same anymore, and thatsaddened him. It hadn't brought them closer for the fiddler toget saddled with Kunta's gardening duties, though he'd finallymanaged to get over it. But what he couldn't seem to get usedto was the fact that Kunta soon began to replace him as the

plantation's best-informed source of news and gossip fromthe outside. No one could have accused the fiddler ofbecoming tight-lipped, but as time went on, his famousmonologues became shorter and shorter and more and moreinfrequent; and he hardly ever played fiddle for them anymore.After he had acted unusually subdued one evening, Kuntamentioned it to Bell, wondering if he had done or saidanything that might have hurt his feelings. "Don' flatteryourself," she told him. "Day an night fo' months now, fiddlerbeen runnin' back an' fo'th 'crost de county playin' fo' de whitefolks. He jes' too we' out to run his mouf like he use to, whichis fine wid me. An' he git ting dollar an' a halfa night now eve'ytime he play at one a dem fancy white folks' parties he go to.Even when de massa take his half, fiddler get to keepsebenty-five cents fo' his self so how come he bother playin'fo' niggers no mo'--less'n you wants to take up a c'llection an'see if'n he play fo' a nickel. She glanced up from the stove tosee if Kunta was smiling. He wasn't. But she would have falleninto her soup if he had been. She had seen him smile justonce--when he heard about a slave he knew from a nearbyplantation who had escaped safely to the North. "I hearsfiddler plannin' to save up what he earn an buy his freedomfrom de massa," she went on. "Time he got enough to do dat,"said Kunta gravely, "he gonna be too of' to leave his hut." Belllaughed so hard she almost did fall into her soup. If the fiddlernever earned his freedom, it wouldn't be for lack of trying,Kunta decided, after hearing him play at a party one night notlong afterward. He had dropped off the massa and wastalking with the other drivers under a tree out on the darkened

lawn when the band--led by the fiddler, obviously in rare formtonight--began to play a Virginia reel so lively that even thewhite folks couldn't keep their feet still. From where he sat,Kunta could see the silhouettes of young couples whirling fromthe great hall out onto the veranda through one door and backin again through another. When the dancing was over,everybody lined up at a long table glowing with candles andloaded with more food than slave row got to see in a year. Andwhen they'd had their fill--the host's fat daughter came backthree times for more--the cook sent out a trayful of leftoversand a pitcher of lemonade for the drivers. Thinking that themassa might be getting ready to leave, Kunta wolfed down achicken leg and a delicious sticky sweet creamy something orother that one of the other drivers called "a ay-clair." But themass as in their white suits, stood around talking quietly forhours, gesturing with hands that held long cigars and sippingnow and then from glasses of wine that glinted in the light fromthe chandelier that hung above them, while their wives, in finegowns, fluttered their handkerchiefs and simpered behindtheir fans. The first time he had taken the massa to one ofthese "high-falutin' to-dos," as Bell called them, Kunta hadbeen all but overwhelmed by conflicting emotions: awe,indignation, envy, contempt, fascination, revulsion--but most ofall a deep loneliness and melancholy from which it took himalmost a week to recover. He couldn't believe that suchincredible wealth actually existed, that people really lived thatway. It took him a long time, and a great many more parties, torealize that they didn't live that way, that it was all strangelyunreal, a kind of beautiful dream the white folks were having, a

lie they were telling themselves: that goodness can come frombadness, that it's possible to be civilized with one anotherwithout treating as human beings those whose blood, sweat,and mother's milk. made possible the life of privilege they led.Kunta had considered sharing these thoughts with Bell or theold gardener, but he knew he wouldn't be able to find the rightwords in the toubob tongue. Anyway, both of them had livedhere all their lives and couldn't be expected to see it as he did,with the eyes of an outsider--one who had been born free. So,as it had always been when he thought about such things, hekept it to himself--and found himself wishing that, even after allthese years, he didn't still feel so alone. About three monthslater Massa Waller"--'long wid jes' 'bout eve' body who'sanybody in de state a Virginia," according to the fiddler--wasinvited to attend the Thanksgiving Ball his parents held eachyear at Enfield. Arriving late because the massa, as usual,had to stop off and see a patient on the way, Kunta could hearthat the party was well under way as they clip-clopped up thetree-lined driveway toward the big house, which was lit upfrom top to bottom. Pulling up at the front door, he leapeddown to stand at attention while the doorman helped themassa out of the buggy. That's when he heard it. Somewherevery nearby, the edges and heels of someone's hands werebeating on a drum like gourd instrument called a qua-qua, anddoing it with a sharpness and power that made Kunta knowthe musician was an African. It was all he could do to standstill until the door closed behind the massa. Then Kuntatossed the reins to the waiting stable boy and raced as fast ashis half foot would let him around the side of the house and

across the backyard. The sound, which was getting louderand louder, seemed to be coming from the middle of a crowdof blacks stomping and clapping beneath a string of lanternsthat the Wallers had allowed the slaves to put up for their ownThanksgiving celebration. Ignoring their indignantexclamations as he pushed his way through them, Kunta burstinto the open circle, and there he was: a lean, gray- haired,very black man squatted on the ground pounding on his qua-qua between a mandolin player and two beef- bone clackers.As they nicked glances up at the sudden commotion, Kunta'seyes met his--and a moment later they all but sprang towardeach other, the other blacks gawking, then snickering, as theyembraced. "A hsalakium-salaam!" "Malakium-salaam!" Thewords came as if neither of them had ever left Africa. Kuntashoved the older man away to arm's length. "I ain't seed youhere befo'," he exclaimed. "Jes' sol' here from not herplantation," the other said. "My massa yo' massa's young' unsaid Kunta. "I drives his buggy." The men around them hadbegun muttering with impatience for the music to start again,and they were obviously uncomfortable at this open display ofAfricanness. Both Kunta and the qua-qua player knew theymustn't aggravate the others any further, or one of them mightreport to the white folks. "I be back!" said Kunta. "Salakium-salaam!" said the qua-qua player, squatting back down. Kuntastood there for a moment as the music began again, thenturned abruptly, walked through the crowd with his head down--frustrated and embarrassed--and went to wait in the buggyfor Massa Waller. Over the weeks that followed, Kunta's mindtumbled with questions about the qua-qua player. What was

his tribe? Clearly he was not Mandinka, nor of any of the othertribes Kunta had ever seen or heard about either in TheGambia or on the big canoe. His gray hair said that he wasmuch older; Kunta wondered if he had as many rains asOmoro would by now. And how had each of them sensed thatthe other was a servant of Allah? The qua-qua player's easewith toubob speech as well as with Islam said that he hadbeen a long time in the white folks' land, probably for morerains than Kunta had. The qua-qua player said that he hadrecently been sold to Massa Waller's father; where in toubobland had he been for all those rains before now? Kuntareviewed in his mind the other Africans he had chanced tosee--most of them, unfortunately, when he was with the massaand couldn't afford even to nod at them, let alone meet them--in his three rains of driving the massa's buggy. Among themhad even been one or two who were unquestionablyMandinkas. Most of the Africans he had glimpsed as theydrove past the Saturday morning slave auctions. But afterwhat had happened one morning about six months before, hehad decided never to drive the buggy anywhere near theauctions if he could possibly avoid it without massasuspecting his reason. As they drove by that day, a chainedyoung Jola woman had begun shrieking piteously. Turning tosee what was the matter, he saw the wide eyes of the Jolawoman fixed on him on the high seat of the buggy, her mouthopen in a scream, beseeching him to help her. In bitter,flooding shame, Kunta had lashed his whip down across bothhorses' rumps and they all but bucked ahead, jolting themassa backward, terrifying Kunta at what he had done, but

the massa had said nothing. Once Kunta had met an Africanslave in the county seat while he was waiting for the massaone afternoon, but neither one of them could understand theother's tribal language, and the other man hadn't yet learned tospeak the toubob tongue. It seemed unbelievable to Kuntathat it was only after twenty rains in the white folks' land that hehad met another African with whom he could communicate.But for the next two months, into the spring of 1788, it seemedto Kunta that the massa visited every patient, relative, andfriend wi'hin five counties--except for his own parents atEnfield. Once he considered asking him for a traveling pass,which he had never done before, but he knew that wouldinvolve questions about where he intended to go and why. Hecould say he was going to see Liza, the cook at Enfield, butthat would let the massa think there was something betweenthem; and he might mention it to his parents, and they mightmention it to Liza, and then he'd never hear the end of it,because he knew she had her eye on him and the feeling wasdefinitely not mutual, so Kunta dropped the idea. In hisimpatience to get back to Enfield, he had begun to growirritable with Bell--the more so because he couldn't talk withher about it--or so he told himself, knowing all too well heraversion toward anything African. Thinking about confiding inthe fiddler and the old gnrden- er, he had finally decided thatalthough they wouldn't tell anyone else, they wouldn't be ableto appreciate the magnitude of meeting someone to talk tofrom one's native land after twenty rains. Then one Sundayafter lunch, without any notice at all, the massa sent out tohave him hitch up the team: He was going to Enfield. Kunta

almost leaped from his seat and out the door. Bell staring afterhim in amazement. Liza was busy among her pots when heentered the kitchen at Enfield. He asked how she was. addingquickly that he wasn't hungry. She looked warmly at him. "Ain'tseen you in a time," she said, her voice soft. Then her facebecame somber. "Heared 'bout you an' dat African we donegot. Massa beared, too. Some dem niggers tol' 'im. but heain't said nothin', so I wouldn' worry 'bout it." She grasped andsqueezed Kunta's hand. "You jes' wait a minute." Kunta feltready to explode with impatience, but Liza was deftly makingand wrapping two thick beef sandwiches. She gave them tohim, again pressing his hand within hers. Then she walkedhim toward the kitchen door, where she hesitated. "Sump'nyou ain't never ax me, so I ain't tol' you--my mammy was anAfrican nigger. Reckon dat's how come I likes you so much."Seeing Kunta's anxiety to leave, she turned abruptly andpointed. "Oat hut wid de broke ch'i'inev his'n. Most de niggersmassa's let go off today. Dey won't git back fo' dark. You jes'be sho' you at yo' buggy fo' your massa come out! " Limpingquickly down slave row, Kunta knocked at the door of theramshackle one-room hut. "Who dat?" said the voice heremembered. "Ah-salakium-salaam!" said Kunta. He heard aquick muffled movement within, and the door swung openwide.

CHAPTER 61

Since they were Africans, neither man showed how much thismoment had been awaited by both of them. The older man

offered Kunta his only chair, but when he saw that his guestpreferred to squat on the dirt floor as he would have done in avillage back home, the qua-qua player grunted withsatisfaction, lighted the candle on his leaning table, andsquatted down himself. "I comes from Ghana, an' mine is deAkan peoples. De white folks gimme de name Pompey, butmy real one's Boteng Bediako. I's been a long time here. Sixwhite folks' plantations, an' I hopes dis de las' one. How 'boutyou?" Trying to copy the Ghanaian's terse way of speaking,Kunta told him of The Gambia, of luffure, of being Mandinka,of his family; of his capture and escapes, his foot, doinggardening, and now driving the buggy. The Ghanaian listenedintently, and when Kunta finished the Ghanaian sat thinkingawhile before he spoke again. "We's all sufferirf. A man wise,he try to learn from it." He paused and looked appraisingly atKunta. "How of' you is?" Kunta said thirty-seven rains. "Youain't look it. I's sixty-six." "You ain't look dat neither," saidKunta. "Well, I's been here longer'n you been born. Wishesback den I coulda knowed sump'n dat I's learned now. But youstill young, so I tell it to you .01' gran'Tinmas in you country, deytell young'uns de stories?" Kunta said that they did. "Den I tellyou one. It's 'bout growin' up where I come from. "I 'membershow de chief a our Akan peoples use to set in this big chairmade outa elephants' teeth, an' it was a man always held aumbrella over his head. Den long side was de man de chiefspoke through. Only way he ever talked, or anybody could talkto him, was through dis man. An' den a boy set at de chief'sfeet. Dis boy stood for de chiefs soul, an' he run de chiefsmessages to de people. Dis boy run wid a thick-bladed

sword, so whoever seed 'im comin' knowed 'zactly who hewas. I growed up being dat boy, runnin' messages 'mongst depeoples. Dat's how de white mens cotched me." Kunta wasabout to speak when the Ghanaian held up his hand. "Dat ain'tde end a de story. What I's getting' to, on top of de chiefsumbrella was dis carvin' of a hand holdin' a egg. Dat stood forde care a chief used his powers wid. An' dat man de chieftalked through, he always held a staff. An' on dat staff a turtlewas carved. Turtle stood for dat de key to livin' is patience."The Ghanaian paused. "An' it was a bee carved on de shell adat turtle. Bee stood for dat nothin' can't sting through deturtle's hard shell. " In the flickering candlelight of the hut, theGhanaian paused. "Dis is what I wants to pass on to you, datI's learned in de white folks' land. What you needs most to livehere is patience--wid a hard shell." In Africa, Kunta was sure,this man would have been a kin tango or an alcala, if not achief himself. But he didn't know how to say what he felt, andjust sat there without saying anything. "Look like you got both,"said the Ghanaian finally with a smile. Kunta began tostammer an apology, but his tongue still seemed to be tied.The Ghanaian smiled again, fell silent for a moment himself,then spoke again. "You Mandinkas spoke of in my country asgreat travelers an' traders." He left the statement in midair,clearly waiting for Kunta to say something. At last Kunta foundhis voice. "You heard right.. My uncles is travelers. Listenin' tostories dey used to tell, seem like dey been jus' 'bout eve'where Me and my father once, we went to a new village deydone started a long ways from Juffure. I was plannin' to go toMecca an' Timbuktu an' Mali an' all like dey done, but I got

stole 'fore I had de chance. " "I knows some 'bout Africa," saidthe Ghanaian. "De chief had me teached by de wise men. Iain't forgot what dey said. An' I's tried to put it together -widthings I's beared an' seed since I been here, an' I knows datmost of us dat's brought here is stole from West Africa--fromup roun' your Gambia all de way down de coast to my Guinea.Is you heard of what white folks calls de "Gold Coast'?" Kuntasaid that he hadn't. "Dey named it dat 'count of de gold dere.Dat coast go clear up to de Volta. It's dat coast where dewhite folks cotches de Fanti an' de Ashanti peoples. It's demAshantis dat's said to lead most of de uprisins' an' revoltswhen dey's brought here. "Spite dat, de white folks pays someof dey biggest prices for dem, 'cause dey's smart an' strongan' dey's got spirit. "Den what dey calls de "Slave Coast' iswhere dey gits de Yorubas an' Dahomans, an' roun' de tip ofde Niger dey gits de Ibo." Kunta said that he had heard theIbo were a gentle people. The Ghanaian nodded. "Ts bearedof thirty Ibos joined hands an' walked into a river, all singin', an'drowned together. Dat was in Lou'siana." Kunta was startingto get worried that the massa might be ready to leave and hemight keep him waiting, and a moment of silence passedbetween them. As Kunta's mind cast about for some topicappropriate to leave on, the Ghanaiaa said, "Sho ain't nobodyhere to set an' talk wid like us is. Heap a times qua-qua got tosay what I got on my mind. Reckon maybe I was talkirf to youwidout knowin' you was dere." Deeply moved, Kunta lookedthe Ghanaian in the eye for a long moment, and then they gotup. In the candlelight, Kunta noticed on the table the forgottentwo sandwiches that Liza had given him. He pointed to them

and smiled. "We can eat anytime. Now I knows you got to go,"said the Ghanaian. "In my country, whilst we was talkin', I'd abeen carvin' somelhin' out of a thorn to give you." Kunta saidthat in The Gambia, he would have been carving somethingfrom a large dried mango seed. "Whole heap of times I donewished I had a mango seed to plant an' grow up to re ming mea home," he said. The Ghanaian looked solemnly at Kunta.Then he smiled. "You's young. Seeds you's got a-plenty, youjes' needs de wife to plant 'em in. " Kunta was soembarrassed that he didn't know how to reply. The Ghanaianthrust out his left arm, and they shook their left hands in theAfrican manner, meaning that they would soon meet again. "Ahsalakium-salaam." "Malakium-salaam." And Kunta crippedhurriedly out into the deepening dusk, past the other smallhuts, and up toward the big house, wondering if the massahad already come out looking for him. But it was another halfhour before the massa appeared, and as Kunta drove thebuggy homeward-scarcely feeling the reins in his hands orhearing the horses' hooves on the road--he felt as if he hadbeen talking with his dear father Omoro. No evening of his lifehad ever meant more to him.

CHAPTER 62

"Seen Toby passin' yestiday, hollered at 'im, "Hey, drop by an'set awhile, nigger!" You oughta seen de look he give me, an'ain't even spoke! What you reckon it is? " the fiddler askedthe gardener. The gardener had no idea, and they both askedBell. "Cain't tell. If he sick or sump'n, he oughta say so. I'm jes'

leavin' him 'lone, he actin' so funny!" she declared. \ EvenMassa Waller noticed that his commendably reserved andreliable driver seemed not to be his usual self. He hoped itwasn't an incubating stage of a current local contagion towhich they both had been exposed, so one day he askedKunta if he felt badly. "Nawsuh," Kunta quickly replied, soMassa Waller put further concern out of his mind, so long ashis driver got him where he was going. Kunta had beenrocked to the core by his encounter with the Ghanaian, andthat very fact made it clear to him how lost he had become.Day by day, year by year, he had become less resisting, moreaccepting, until finally, without even realizing it, he hadforgotten who he was. It was true that he had come to knowbetter and learned to get along with the fiddler, the gardener.Bell, and the other blacks, but he knew now that he couldnever really be one of them, any more than they could be likehim. Alongside the Ghanaian, in fact, the fiddler and thegardener and Bell now seemed to Kunta only irritating. Hewas glad that they were keeping their distance. Lying on hispallet at night, he was torn with guilt and shame about what hehad let happen to himself. He had still been an African whenhe used to awaken suddenly here in his cabin, jerking upright,shocked to discover that he wasn't in Juffure; but the last timethat happened had been many years ago. He had still been anAfrican when his memories of The Gambia and its people ifhad been the only thing that sustained him; but months mightpass now without his having a single thought about Juffure. Hehad still been an African back in those early years when eachnew outrage had sent him onto his knees imploring Allah to

give him strength and understanding; how long had it beensince he had even properly prayed to Allah? His learning tospeak the toubob tongue, he realized, had played a big part init. In this everyday talking, he seldom even thought ofMandinka words any more, excepting those few that for somereason his mind still clung to. Indeed, by now--Kunta grimlyfaced it--he even thought in the toubob tongue. In countlessthings he did as well as said and thought, his Mandinka wayshad slowly been replaced by those of the blacks he had beenamong. The only thing in which he felt he could take somesmall pride was that in twenty rains he had never touched themeat of the swine. Kunta searched his mind; there must havebeen something else of his original self that he could findsomeplace. And there was: He had kept his dignity. Througheverything, he had worn his dignity as once in Juffure he hadworn his sap hie charms to keep away the evil spirits. Hevowed to himself that now more than ever, his dignity mustbecome as a shield between him and all of those who calledthemselves "niggers." How ignorant of themselves they were;they knew nothing of their ancestors, as he had been taughtfrom boyhood. Kunta reviewed in his mind the names of theKintes from the ancient clan in old Mali down across thegenerations in Mauretania, then in The Gambia all the way tohis brothers and himself; and he thought of how the sameancestral knowledge was possessed by every member of hiskafo. It set Kunta to reminiscing about those boyhood friends.At first he was only surprised, but then he grew shocked whenhe found that he couldn't remember their names. Their facescame back to him--along with memories of them racing out

beyond the village gate like blackbirds to serve as chatteringescorts in Juffure for every traveler who passed by; hurlingsticks at the scuiding monkeys overhead, who promptly hurledthem back; of contests they'd held to see who could eat sixmangoes the fastest. But try as Kunta might, he couldn't recalltheir names, not one of them. He could see his kafo gathered,frowning at him. In his hut, and driving the massa, Kuntaracked his brain. And finally the names did begin to come,one by one: yes, Sitafa Silla--he and Kunta had been bestfriends! And Kalilu Conteh--he had stalked and caught theparrot at the kin tango command. Sefo Kela--he had askedthe Council of Elders for permission to have a teriya sexualfriendship with that widow. The faces of some of the eldersbegan to come back now, and with them the names hethought he had long since forgotten. The kin tango was SillaBa Bibba! The alimamo was Kujali Demba! The wadanelawas Karamo Tamba! Kunta remembered his third-kafograduating ceremony, where he had read his Koranic versesso well that Omoro and Binta gave a fat goat to the arafang,whose name was Brima Cesay. Remembering them all filledKunta with joy--until it occurred to him that those elders wouldhave died by now, and his kafo mates whom he rememberedas little boys would be his age back in Juffure--and he wouldnever see them again. For the first time in many years, hecried himself to sleep. In the county seat a few days later,another buggy driver told Kunta that some free blacks upNorth who called themselves "The Negro Union" hadproposed a mass return to Africa of all blacks--both free andslaves. The very thought of it excited Kunta, even as he

scoffed that it couldn't ever happen, with mass as not onlycompeting to buy blacks but also paying higher prices thanever. Though he knew the fiddler would almost rather stay aslave in Virginia than go to Africa a free man, Kunta wished hecould discuss it with him, for the fiddler always seemed toknow all there was to know about what was going onanywhere if it had anything to do with freedom. But for almosttwo months now Kunta hadn't done more than scowl at thefiddler or at Bell and the gardener either. Not that he neededthem or even liked them that much, of course--but the feelingof being stranded kept growing within him. By the time thenext new moon rose, and he miserably dropped anotherpebble into his gourd, he was feeling inexpressibly lonely, as ifhe had cut himself off from the world. The next time Kunta sawthe fiddler pass by, he nodded at him uncertainly, but thefiddler kept walking as if he hadn't even seen anyone. Kuntawas furiously embarrassed. " The very next day he and the oldgardener saw each other at the same moment, and withoutmissing a step, the gardener turned in another direction. Bothhurt and bitter--and with a mounting sense of guilt--Kuntapaced back and forth in his hut for more hours that night. Thenext morning, bracing himself, he cripped outside and downslave row to the door of the once-familiar last hut. He knocked.The door opened. "What you want?" the fiddler asked coldly.Swallowing with embarrassment, Kunta said, "Jes' fig-geredI'd come by." The fiddler spat on the ground. "Look here,nigger, now hear what I tells you. Me an' Bell an' de of' manbeen 'scussin' you. An' we all 'grees if it's anythin' we can'tstan', it's a sometimey nigger!" He glared at Kunta. "Dat'salt

been wrong wid you! You ain't sick or nothin'." Kunta stoodlooking at his shoes. After a moment, the fiddler's glaresoftened and he stepped aside. "Since you's already here,c'mon in. But I'm gon' tell you--show yo' ass one mo' time, an'you won't git spoke to again 'til you's of as Methuselah! "Choking down his rage and humiliation, Kunta went on insideand sat down, and after a seemingly endless silence betweenthem--which the fiddler obviously had no intention of ending--Kunta forced himself to tell about the back-to-Africa proposal.The fiddler said coolly that he had long known about that, andthat there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that it would everhappen. Seeing Kunta's hurt expression, the fiddler seemedto relent a little. "Lemme tell you sump'n I bets you ain'tbeared. Up Nawth in New York, dey's what you call aManumission Society dat done open a school for free niggerswhat wants to get learned readin' an' writin' an' all kin's atrades." Kunta was so happy and relieved to have the fiddlertalking to him again that he hardly heard what his old friendwas saying to him. A few minutes later, the fiddler stoppedtalking for a moment and sat looking at Kunta inquiringly. "Is Ikeepin' you up?" he asked finally. "Hmm?" said Kunta, whohad been lost in thought "I ax you a question 'bout five minutesago." "Sorry, I was thinkin' 'bout sump'n." "Well, since you don'know how to listen, I show ya how it's done." He sat back andcrossed his arms. "Ain't you gonna go on wid what you wassayin'?" asked Kunta. "By now I forgits what I was sayin'. Isyou for git what you was thinkin'?" "It ain't impo'tant. Jes'sump'n been on my mind." "Better get it off dere fo' you gits aheadache--or gives me one." "I cain't 'scuss it." "Huh!" said

the fiddler, acting insulted. "Ifn dat de way you feel." "Ain't you.It's jes' too personal." A light began to dawn in the fiddler'seye. "Don' tell mel It's 'bout a woman, right?" "Ain't nothin' a dekin'!" said Kunta, flushing with embarrassment. He satspeechless for a moment, then got up and said, "Well, I belate fo' work, so I see ya later. Thanks fo' talkin' wid me." "Shothing. Jes' lemme know when you wants to do some talkin'."How had he known? Kunta asked himself on his way to thestable. And why had he insisted on making him talk about it? Itwas only with the greatest reluctance that Kunta had even lethimself think about it. But lately he could hardly seem to thinkabout anything else. It had to do with the Ghanaian's adviceabout planting his seeds.

CHAPTER 63

Long before he met the Ghanaian, Kunta had often had ahollow feeling whenever he thought about the fact that if hehad been in Juffure, he would have had three or four sons bynow--along with the wife who had given birth to them. Whatusually occasioned these thoughts was when about once eachmoon, Kunta had a dream from which he always awakenedabruptly in the darkness, acutely embarrassed at the hotstickiness that had just burst from his still rigid foto. Lyingawake afterward, he thought not so much of a wife as he didabout how he knew that there was hardly a slave row wheresome man and woman who cared for one another had notsimply begun living together in whichever's hut was the betterone. There were many reasons why Kunta didn't want to think

about getting married. For one thing, it seemed to involve thecouple's "jumpin' de broomstick" before witnesses from slaverow, which seemed ridiculous to Kunta for such a solemnoccasion. In a few cases he had heard of, certain favoredhouse servants might repeat their vows before some whitepreacher with the massa and mistress looking on, but thatwas a pagan ceremony. If marrying someone in whatevermanner was even to be thought about, the proper bride's agefor a Mandinka was fourteen to sixteen rains, with the manabout thirty. And in his years in the white folks' land, Kuntahadn't seen one black female of fourteen to sixteen--or eventwenty to twenty-five--whom he had not consideredpreposterously giggling and silly; especially when on Sundays,or for festivities, they painted and powdered their faces untilthey looked to him more like the death dancers in Juffure whocovered themselves with ashes. As for the twenty or so olderwomen whom Kunta had come to know, they were mostlysenior cooks at the big houses where he had driven MassaWaller, such as Liza at Enfield. In fact, Liza was the only oneamong them all whom he had come to look forward to seeing.She had no mate, and she had given Kunta clear signs of herwillingness, if not her anxiety, to get him into much closerquarters than he had ever responded to, although he hadthought about it privately. He would have died of shame ifthere had been any way for her to suspect even remotely thatmore than once it had been she about whom he had had thesticky dream. Suppose--just suppose--he were to take Lizafor a wife, Kunta thought. It would mean that they would be likeso many couples he knew, living separately, each of them on

the plantation of their own massa. Usually the man waspermitted Saturday afternoon traveling passes to visit his wife,so long as he faithfully returned before dark on Sun- day inorder to rest up from his often long trip before work resumedat dawn on Monday. Kunta told himself that he would want nopart of a wife living not where he was. And he told himself thatsettled the matter. But his mind, as if on its own, kept onthinking about it. Considering how talkative and smothery Lizawas, and how he liked to spend a lot of time alone, maybetheir being able to see each other just on weekends would bea blessing in disguise. And if he were to marry Liza, it wasunlikely that they would have to live as so many black couplesdid, in fear that one of them, or both, might get sold away. Forthe massa seemed to be happy with him, and Liza wasowned by the massa's parents, who apparently liked her. Thefamily connections would also make unlikely the kind offrictions that sometimes arose when two mass as wereinvolved, sometimes even causing one or both of them toforbid the marriage. On the other hand, Kunta thought... overand over he turned it in his mind. But no matter how manyperfectly sound reasons he could think' of for marrying Liza,some- fesag held him back. Then one night, while he waslying in bed trying to fall asleep, it struck him like a lightningbolt!--there was another woman he might consider. Bell. Hethought he must be crazy. She was nearly three times too old--probably beyond forty rains. It was absurd to think about it.Bell. Kunta tried to hurl her from his mind. She had entered itonly because he had known her for so long, he told himself.He had never even dreamed of her. Grimly, he remembered a

parade of indignities and irritations she had inflicted on him.He remembered how she used to all but slam the screen doorin his face when he carried her vegetable basket to thekitchen. Even more keenly, he remembered her indignationwhen he told her she looked Man- dinka; she was a heathen.Furthermore, she was just generally argumentative and bossy.And she talked too much. But he couldn't help rememberinghow, when he had lain wanting to die, she had visited him fiveand six times daily; how she had nursed and fed him, evencleaned his soiling of himself, and how her hot poultice ofmashed leaves had broken his fever. She was also strong andhealthy. And she did cook endless good things in her blackpots. The better she began to look to him, the ruder he was toher whenever he had to go to the kitchen, and the sooner hewould leave when he had told her or found out from herwhatever he had come for. She began to stare at hisretreating back even more coldly than before. One day afterhe had been talking for some time with the gardener and thefiddler and worked the conversation very slowly around to Bell,it seemed to Kunta that he had just the right tone ofcasualness in his voice when he asked, "Where she was fo'she come here?" But his heart sank when they instantly sat upstraighter and looked at him, sensing something in the air."Well," the gardener said after a minute, "I 'members shecome here 'bout two years fo' you. But she ain't never donemuch talkin' 'bout herself. So ain't much I knows more'n youdoes." The fiddler said Bell had never spoken of her past tohim either. Kunta couldn't put his finger on what it was abouttheir expressions that irritated him. Yes, he could: It was

smugness. The fiddler scratched his right ear. "Sho" is funnyyou ax 'bout Bell," he said, nodding in the gardener'sdirection, " 'cause men him ain't been long back 'scussin' y'all." He looked carefully at Kunta. "We was sayin' seem like y'allboth might be jes' what de othern needs," said the gardener.Outraged, Kunta sat with his mouth open, only nothing cameout. Still scratching his ear, the fiddler wore a sly look. "Yeah,her big behin' be too much to handle for most mens." Kuntaangrily started to speak, but the gardener cut him off,demanding sharply, "Listen here, how long you ain't touchedno woman?" -Kunta glared daggers. "Twenty years anyhow!"exclaimed the fiddler. "Lawd, Gawd!" said the gardener. "Youbetter git you some 'fo' you dries up!" "If he ain't a-reddy!" thefiddler shot in. Unable to speak but able to contain himself amoment longer, Kunta leaped up and stamped out. "Don' youworry!" the fiddler shouted after him. "You ain't gon' stay drylong wid her!"

CHAPTER 64

For the next few days, whenever Kunta wasn't off driving themassa somewhere, he spent both his mornings andafternoons oiling and polishing the buggy. Since he was rightoutside the barn in anyone's view, it couldn't be said that hewas isolating himself again, but at the same time it said thathis work was keeping him too busy to spend time talking withthe fiddler and the gardener--at whom he was still furious forwhat they had said about him and Bell. Being off by himselfalso gave him more time to sort out his feelings for her.

Whenever he was thinking of something he didn't like abouther, his polishing rag would become a furious blur against theleather; and whenever he was feeling better about her, it wouldmove slowly and sensuously across the seats, sometimesalmost stopping as his mind lingered on some disarmingquality of hers. Whatever her shortcomings, he had to admitthat she had done a great deal in his best interests over theyears. He felt certain that Bell had even played a quiet role inthe massa's having selected him as his buggy driver. Therewas no question that in her own subtle ways. Bell had moreinfluence on the massa fean anyone else on the plantation, orprobably all of them put together. And a parade of smallerthings came and went through Kunta's mind. He remembereda time back when he was gardening and Bell had noticed thathe was often rubbing at his eyes, which had been itching himin a maddening 'way. Without a word, she had come out to thegarden one morning with some wide leaves still wet withdewdrops, which she shook into his eyes, whereupon theitching had soon stopped. Not that he felt any less stronglyabout the things he disapproved of in Bell, Kunta remindedhimself as the rag picked up speed--most particularly herdisgusting habit of smoking tobacco in a pipe. Even moreobjectionable was her way of dancing whenever there wassome festivity among the blacks. He didn't feel that womenshouldn't dance, or do so less than enthusiastically. Whatbothered him was that Bell seemed to go out of her way tomake her behind shake in a certain manner, which he figuredwas the reason the fiddler and the gardener had said whatthey did about her. Bell's behind, of course, wasn't any of his

business; he just wished she would show a little more respectfor herself--and while she was at it, a little more toward himand other men. Her tongue, it seemed to him, was even worsethan old Nyo Boto's. He wouldn't mind her being critical ifshe'd only keep it to herself, or do her criticizing in thecompany of other women, as it was done in Juffure. WhenKunta had finished with the buggy, he began cleaning andoiling the leather harnesses, and for some reason as he didso, his mind went back to the old men in Juffure who carvedthings from wood such as the knee high slab of hickory onwhich he was sitting. He thought how carefully they would firstselect and then study some thoroughly seasoned piece ofwood before they would ever touch it with their adzes and theirknives. Kunta got up and toppled the hickory block over on itsside, sending the beetles that lived beneath it scurrying away.After closely examining both ends of the block, he rolled itback and forth, tapping it with the piece of iron at differentplaces, and always hearing the same solid, seasoned sound.It seemed to him that this excellent piece of wood was servingno real purpose just sitting here. It was there apparently onlybecause someone had put it there long before and no onehad ever bothered to move it. Looking around to make sureno one was watching, Kunta rolled the block rapidly to his hut,where he stood it upright in a corner, closed the door, andwent back to work. That night, after bringing the massa backfrom a trip to the county seat that seemed to take forever,Kunta couldn't sit through supper before getting another lookat the hickory block, so he took the food along with him to hiscabin. Not even noticing what he was eating, Kunta sat on the

floor in front of it and studied it in the light from the flickeringcandle on his table. In his mind, he was seeing the mortar andpestle that Omoro had carved for Binta, who had worn it slickwith many grindings of her corn. Merely to pass away some ofhis free time, Kunta told himself, when Massa Waller didn'twant to go anywhere, Kunta began to chop away at the blockwith a sharp hatchet, making a rough shape of the outside rimof a mortar for grinding corn. By the third day, with a hammerand a wood chisel, he dug out the mortar's inside, alsoroughly, and then he began to carve with a knife. After a week,Kunta's fingers surprised him at how nimbly they flew,considering that he hadn't watched the old men in his villagecarving things for more than twenty rains. When he hadfinished the inside and the outside of the mortar, he found aseasoned hickory limb, perfectly straight and of the thicknessof his arm, from which he soon made a pestle. Then he setabout smoothing the upper part of the handle, scraping it firstwith a file, next with a knife, and finally with a piece of glass.Finished, they both sat in a corner of Kunta's hut for two moreweeks. He would look at them now and then, reflecting thatthey wouldn't look out of place in his mother's kitchen. But nowthat he had made them, he was unsure what to do with them;at least that's what he told himself. Then one morning, withoutreally thinking about why he was doing it, Kunta picked themup and took them along when he went to check with Bell tosee if the massa was going to need the buggy. When shegave him her brief, cold report from behind the screen door,saying that the massa had no travel plans that morning, Kuntawaited until her back was turned and found himself setting the

mortar and pestle down on the steps and turning to leave asfast as he could go. When Bell's ears caught the gentlethumping sound, which made her turn around, she first sawKunta Gripping away even more hurriedly than usual; then. " ",she saw the mortar and pestle on the steps. Walking to thedoor, she peered out at Kunta until he had disappeared, theneased the screen door open and looked down at them; shewas flabbergasted. Picking them up and bringing them inside,she examined his painstaking carving with astonishment; andthen she began to cry. It was the first time in her twenty-twoyears on the Waller plantation that any man had madesomething for her with his own hands. She felt flooding guilt forthe way she had been acting toward Kunta, and sheremembered how peculiar the fiddler and the gardener hadacted recently when she complained to them about him. Theymust have;'; known of this--but she couldn't be certain,knowing how ' close-mouthed and reserved Kunta could be inhis African way. Bell was confused about how she should feel--or how she should act the next time he came to check on themassa again after lunch. She was glad she would have atleast the rest of the morning to get her mind made up aboutthat Kunta, meanwhile, sat in his cabin feeling as if he weretwo people, one of them completely humiliated by the foolishand ridiculous thing the other one had just done--and feltalmost deliriously happy and excited about it. What made himdo it? What would she think? He dreaded having to return tothe kitchen after lunch. Finally the hour came, and Kuntatrudged up the walk as if he were going to his execution.When he saw that the mortar and pestle were gone from the

back steps, his heart leaped and sank at the same time.Reaching the screen door, he saw that she had put them onthe floor just inside, as if she were uncertain why Kunta hadleft them there. Turning when he knocked--as if she hadn'theard him coming--she tried to look calm as she unlatched thedoor and opened it for him to come on in. That was a badsign, thought Kunta; she hadn't opened the door to him inmonths. But he wanted to come in; yet he couldn't seem totake that first step. Rooted where he stood, he asked matter-of-factly about the massa, and Bell, concealing her hurtfeelings and her confusion, managed to reply just as matter-of-factly that the massa said he had no afternoon plans for thebuggy either. As Kunta turned to go, she added hopefully, "Hebeen writin' letters all day." All of the possible things that Bellhad thought of that she might say had fled her head, and as heturned again to go, she heard herself blurting "What dat?" witha gesture toward the mortar and pestle. Kunta wished that hewere anywhere else on earth. But finally he replied, almostangrily, "For you to grin' cawn wid." Bell looked at him with hermingled emotions now clearly showing on her face. Seizingthe silence between them as an excuse to leave, Kunta turnedand hurried away without another word. Bell stood therefeeling like a fool. For the next two weeks, beyond exchanginggreetings, neither of them said anything to each other. Thenone day, at the kitchen door. Bell gave Kunta a round cake ofcornbread. Mumbling his thanks, he took it back to his hut andate it still hot from the pan and soaked with butter. He wasdeeply moved. Almost certainly she had made it with mealground in the mortar he had given her. But even before this he

had decided that he was going to have a talk with Bell. Whenhe checked in with her after lunch, he forced himself to say, ashe had carefully rehearsed and memorized it, "I wants a wordwid you after supper." Bell didn't delay her response overlong."Don't make me no difference," she said too quickly,regretting it. By suppertime, Kunta had worked himself into astate. Why had she said what she did? Was she really asindifferent as she seemed? And if she was, why did she makethe cornbread for him? He would have it out with her. Butneither he nor Bell had remembered to say exactly when orwhere they would meet. She must have intended for him tomeet her at her cabin, he decided finally. But he hopeddesperately that some emergency medical call would comefor Massa Waller. When none did, and he knew he couldn't putit off any longer, he took a deep breath, opened his cabindoor, and strolled casually over to the barn. Coming backoutside swinging in his hand a set of harnesses that hefigured would satisfy the curiosity of anyone who mighthappen to see him and wonder why he was out and around,he ambled on down to slave row to Bell's cabin and--lookingaround to make sure no one was around--knocked very quietlyon the door. It opened almost before his knuckles touched thewood, and Bell stepped immediately outside. Glancing downat the harness, and then at Kunta, she said nothing--and whenhe didn't either, she began to walk slowly down toward theback fence row he fell into step beside her. The half moon hadbegun to rise, and in its pale light they moved along without aword. When a ground vine entangled the shoe on his left foot,Kunta stumbled--his shoulder brushing against Bell--arid he all

but sprang away. Ransacking his brain for something--anything--to say, he wished wildly that he was walking with thegardener or the fiddler, or practically anyone except Bell.Finally it was she who broke the silence. She said abruptly,"De white folks done swore in dat Gen'l Washington for dePres'dent." Kunta wanted to ask her what that was, but hedidn't, hoping that she'd keep on talking. "An' it's an nudermassa name of John Adams is Vice Pres'dent," she went on,Floundering, he felt that he must say something to keep thetalk going. He said finally, "Rode massa over to see hisbrother's young' un yestiddy," instantly feeling foolish, as heknew full well that Bell already knew that. "Lawd, he do lovedat chile!" Bell said, feeling foolish, since that's about all sheever said about little Missy Anne whenever the subject cameup. The silence had built up a little bit again when she went on."Don't know how much you knows 'bout massa's brother. Hede Spotsylvania County clerk, but he ain't never had ourmassa's head fo' bin- ness." Bell was quiet for a few moresteps. "I keeps my ears sharp on little things gits dropped. Iknows whole lot more'n anybody thinks I knows." She glancedover at Kunta. "I ain't never had no use for dat Massa John--an' I's sure you ain't neither--but dere's sump'n you ought toknow 'bout him dat I ain't never tol' you. It weren't him had yourfoot cut off. Fact, he pitched a fit wid dem low-down po' whitetrash what done it. He'd hired 'em to track you wid dey niggerdogs, an' dey claim how come dey done it was you tried to killone of 'em wid a rock. " Bell paused. "I 'members it likeyestiddy when Sheriff Brock come a-rushin' you to/ ourmassa." Under the moonlight. Bell looked at Kunta. "You near

'bout dead, massa said. He got so mad when Massa Johnsay he ain't got no use for you no more wid your foot gone, heswore he gon' buy you from him, an' he done it, too. I seen devery deed he bought you wid. He took over a good-sized farmlong wid you in de place of money his brother owed him. It'sdat big farm wid de pond right where de big road curve, youpasses it all de time. " Kunta knew the farm instantly. He couldsee the pond in his mind, and the surrounding fields. "But deybusiness dealin's don't make no difference, 'cause all demWallers is very close," Bell continued. "Dey's 'mongst deoldes' families in Virginia. Fact, dey was of' family in dat Eng-land even 'fo' dey come crost de water to here. Was all kindsof "Sirs' an' stuff, all b'longin' to de Church of England. Wasone of dem what writ poems, name of Massa Edmund Waller.His younger brother Massa John Waller was de one whatcomes here first. He weren't but eighteen, I's beared massasay, when some King Charles de Secon' give him a big lan'grant over where Kent County is now. " Their pace hadbecome much slower as Bell talked, and Kunta couldn't havebeen more pleased with Bell's steady talking, although he hadalready heard from some other Waller family cooks at leastsome of the things she was saying, though he never wouldhave told her that. "Anyhow, dis John Waller married a MissMary Key, an' dey built de Enfield big house where you takesmassa to see his folks. An' dey had three boys, 'specially Johnde Secon', de younges', who come to be a whole heap ofthings--read de law while he was a sheriff, den was in deHouse of Burgesses, an' he helped to found Fredericksburgan' to put together Spotsylvania County. It was him an' his

Missis Dorothy what built Newport, an' dey had six young'uns.An' cose out of all demit commence to be Waller chillunsspreadin' all over, an' growin' on up, an' havin' young'uns ofdey own. Our massa an de other Wallers what lives roun' hereain't but a han'ful of 'em all. Dey's all pretty much high-respected peoples, too, sheriffs an' preachers, county clerks.House of Burgesses, doctors like massa; whole heap of 'emfought in de Revolution, an' I don't know what all. " Kunta hadbecome so absorbed in what Bell was saying that he wasstartled when she stopped walking. "We better git on back,"she said. "Traipsin' out here till all hours 'mongst dese weeds,be oversleepin' in de mornin'." They turned around, and whenBell was quiet for a minute, and Kunta didn't say anything, sherealized that he wasn't going to tell her whatever he had on hismind, so she went on chattering about whatever came into hermind until they got back to her cabin, where she turned to facehim and fell silent. He stood there looking at her for a long,agonizing moment, and then finally he spoke: "Well, it getting'late like you said. So I see you tomorra." As he walked away,still carrying the harnesses. Bell realized that he hadn't told herwhatever it was that he wanted to talk to her about. Well, shetold herself--afraid to think that it might be what she thought itwas--he'll get around to it in his own time. It was just as wellthat she wasn't in a hurry, for though Kunta began to spend alot of time in Bell's kitchen as she went about her work, shefound herself, as usual, doing most of the talking. But she likedhaving him there to listen. "I found' out," she told him one day,"dat massa done writ out a will that if he die an' ain't gotmarried, his slaves gon' go to little Missy Anne. But de will say

if he do marry, den he wife would git us slaves when he die."Even so, Bell didn't seem to be unduly disturbed. "Sho' is aplenty of 'em roun' here would love to grab de massa, but heain't never married no mo'." She paused. "Jes' de same as Iain't." Kunta almost dropped the fork from his hand. He waspositive that he had heard Bell correctly, and he was jolted toknow that Bell had been married before, for it was unthinkablethat a desirable wife should not be a virgin. Kunta soon wasout of the kitchen and gone into his own cabin. He knew thathe must think hard upon this matter. Two weeks of silence hadpassed before Bell casually invited Kunta to eat supper withher in her cabin that night. He was so astounded that he didn'tknow what to say. He had never been alone in a hut with awoman other than his own mother or grandmother. It wouldn'tbe right. But when he couldn't find the words to speak, she toldhim what time to show up, and that was that. He scrubbedhimself in a tin tub from head to foot, using a rough cloth and abar of brown lye soap. Then he scrubbed himself again, andyet a third time. Then he dried himself, and while he wasputting on his clothes, he found himself singing softly a songfrom his village, "Man- dumbe, your long neck is verybeautiful."--Bell didn't have a long neck, nor was she beautiful,but he had to admit to himself that when he was around her, hehad a good feeling. And he knew that she felt the same. Bell'scabin was the biggest one on the plantation, and the onenearest to the big house, with a small bed of flowers growingbefore it. Knowing her kitchen, her cabin's immaculateneatness was no more than Kunta would expect. The room heentered when she opened the door had a feeling of cozy

comfort, with its wall of mud-chinked logs and a chimney ofhomemade bricks that widened down from the roof to herlarge fireplace, alongside which hung her shining cookingutensils. And Kunta noticed that instead of the usual one roomwith one window, such as he had, Bell's cabin had two roomsand two windows, both covered with shutters that she couldpull down in case of rain, or when it grew cold. The curtainedrear room was obviously where she slept, and Kunta kept hiseyes averted from that doorway. On her oblong table in thecenter of the room he was in, there were knives and forks andspoons standing in a jar, and some flowers from her garden inanother, and two lighted candles were sitting in squat clayholders, and at either end of the table was a high-backed,cane-bottomed chair. Bell asked him to sit in a rocking chairthat was nearer the fireplace. He did, sitting down carefully, forhe had never been in one of these contraptions before, buttrying hard to act casual about the whole visit as Bell seemedto be. "I been so busy I ain't even lit de fire," she said, andKunta all but leaped up out of the chair, glad to havesomething he could do with his hands. Striking the flint sharplyagainst the piece of iron, he lighted the fluffy cotton that Bellhad already placed under fat pine sticks beneath the oak logs,and quickly they caught fire. "Don't know how come I ax you tocome here nohow, place in a mess, an' I ain't got nothin'ready," Bell said, bustling about her pots. "Ain't no hurry widme," Kunta made himself respond. But her already cookedchicken with dumplings, which she well knew that Kunta loved,was soon bubbling. And when she had served him, shechided him for gobbling so. But Kunta didn't quit until the third

helping, with Bell insisting that there was still a little more inthe pot. "Naw, I's fit to bus'," said Kunta truthfully. And after afew more minutes of small talk, he got up and said he had toget on home. Pausing in the doorway, he looked at Bell, andBell looked at him, and neither of them said anything, and thenBell turned her eyes away, and Kunta Gripped on down alongslave row to his own cabin. He awakened more lightheartedthan he had felt since leaving Africa--but he told no one why hewas acting so uncharacteristically cheerful and outgoing. Buthe hardly needed to. Word began to get around that Kuntahad actually been seen smiling and even laughing in Bell'skitchen. And at first every week or so, then twice a week. Bellwould invite Kunta home for supper. Though he thought thatonce in a while he should make some excuse, he could neverbring himself to say no. And always Bell cooked things Kuntahad let her know were also grown in The Gambia, such asblack-eyed peas, okra, a stew made of peanuts, or yamsbaked with butter. Most of their conversations were still one-sided, but neither one seemed to mind. Her favorite topic, ofcourse, was Massa Waller, and it never ceased to amazeKunta how much Bell knew that he didn't about the man hespent so much more time with than she did. "Massa funny'bout different things," Bell said. "Like he believe in banks, allright enough, but he keep money hid, too; nobody else don'tknow where but me. He funny 'bout his niggers, too. He do'bout anything for 'em, but if one mess up, he'll sell 'im jes' likehe done Luther. ] " "Mother thing massa funny 'bout," Bell wenton. "He; won't have a yaller nigger on his place. You evernotice, i 'ceptin' fo' de fiddler, ain't nothin' here but black

niggers? Massa tell anybody jes' what he think 'bout it, too. Idone beared 'im tellin' some of de biggest mens in dis county,I mean ones dat got plenty yaller niggers deyselves, dat toomany white mens is havin' slave chilluns, so dey ain't doin'nothin' but buyin' an' sellin' dey own blood, an' it need to bestopped. " Though he never showed it, and he kept up asteady drone of "uh-huhs" when Bell was talking, Kunta wouldsometimes listen with one ear while he thought aboutsomething else. Once when she cooked him a hoe cake,using mea she had made in the mortar and pestle he hadcarved for her, Kunta was watching her in his mind's eyebeating the couscous for breakfast in some African villagewhile she stood at the stove telling him that hoe cakes gottheir name from slaves cooking them on the flat edge of a hoewhen they were working out in the fields. Now and then Belleven gave Kunta some special dish to take to the fiddler andthe gardener. He wasn't seeing as much of them as he had,but they seemed to understand, and the time they spent aparteven seemed to increase the pleasure of conversation with'hem whenever they got together. Though he never discussedBell with them--and they never brought her up--it was clearfrom their expressions that they knew she and he were courtin'as welt as if their meetings took place on the front lawn. Kuntafound this vaguely embarrassing, but there seemed to benothing he could do about it--not that he particularly cared to.He was more concerned that there remained some seriousmatters he wanted to take up with Bell, but he never couldquite seem to get around to them. Among them was the factthat she kept on her front-room wall a large, framed picture of

the yellow-haired "Jesus," who seemed to be a relative oftheir heathen "0 Lawd." But finally he did manage to mentionit, and Bell promptly said, "Ain't but two places everybody'sheadin' for, heab'n or hell, and where you going', dat's yo'business!" And she would say no more about it. Her replydiscomfited him every time he thought of it, but finally hedecided that she had a right to her beliefs, howevermisguided, just as he had a right to his. Unshaken, he hadbeen born with Allah and he was going to die with Allah--although he hadn't been praying to Him regularly again eversince he started seeing a lot of Bell. He resolved to correctthat and hoped that Allah would forgive him. Anyway, hecouldn't feel too harshly about someone, even a paganChristian, who was so good to one of another faith, evensomeone as worthy as he was. She was so nice to him, infact, that Kunta wanted to do something special for her--something at least as special as the mortar and pestle. Soone day when he was on his way over to Massa John's to pickup Missy Anne for a weekend visit with Massa Waller, Kuntastopped off by a fine patch of bulrushes he had often noticed,and picked some of the best he could find. With the rushessplit into fine pieces, and with some selected, soft inner whitecorn shucks over the next several days he plaited an intricatemat with a bold Mandinka design in its center. It came outeven better than he had expected, and he presented it to Bellthe next time she had him over for supper. She looked upwardfrom the mat to Kunta. "Ain't nobody gon' put dey feets ondat!" she exclaimed, turning and disappearing into herbedroom. Back a few moments later with a hand behind her,

she said, "Dis was gonna be for yo' Christmas, but I make yousomething' else." She held out her hand. It was a pair of finelyknitted woolen socks--one of them with a half foot, the frontpart filled with soft woolen cushion. Neither he nor Bellseemed to know what to say. He could smell the aroma of thefood she had been simmering, ready to be served, but astrange feeling was sweeping over him as they kept onlooking at each other. Bell's hand suddenly grasped his, andwith a single motion she blew out both of the candles andswiftly, with Kunta feeling as if he were a leaf being borne by arushing stream, they went together through the curtaineddoorway into the other room and lay down facing one anotheron the bed. Looking deeply into his eyes, she reached out tohim, they drew together, and for the first time in the thirty-ninerains of his life, he held a woman in his arms.

CHAPTER 65

"Massa ain't want to believe me when I tol' 'im," Bell said toKunta. "But he finally say he feel us ought to think on it lor aspell yet, 'cause peoples git ting married is sucred in de eyesof Jesus." To Kunta, however, Massa Waller said not a wordabout it during the next few weeks. Then one night Bell camerunning out to Kunta's cabin and reported breathlessly, "I donetol' 'im we still wants to marry, an' he say, well, den, he reckonit's awright!" The news coursed swiftly through slave row.Kunta was embarrassed as different ones offered theircongratulations. He could have choked Bell for telling evenMissy Anne when she came next to visit her uncle, for the first

thing she did after finding out was race about screaming, "Bellgon' git married! Bell gon' git married!" Yet at the same time,deep inside himself, Kunta felt that it was improper for him tofeel any displeasure at such an announcement, since theMandinka people considered marriage to be the mostimportant thing after birth itself. Bell somehow managed to getthe massa's promise not to use the buggy--or Kunta--for theentire Sunday before Christmas, when everyone would be offwork and therefore available to attend the wedding. "I knowsyou don't want no marriage in de big house," she told Kunta,"like we could of had if I'd of asked massa. And I knows hedon't really want dat neither, so at leas' y'all togedder on dat."She arranged for it to be held in the front yard alongside theoval flower garden. Everybody on slave row was there in theirSunday best, and standing together across from them wereMassa Waller with little Missy Anne and her parents. But as faras Kunta was concerned, the guest of honor--and, in a veryreal sense, the one responsible for the whole thing--was hisfriend the Ghanaian, who had hitched a ride all the way fromEnfield just to be there. As Kunta walked with" Bell out into thecenter of the yard, he turned his head! toward the qua-quaplayer, and they exchanged a long; look before Bell's mainpraying and singing friend. Aunt] Sukey, the plantation'slaundress, stepped forward to con' duct the ceremony. Aftercalling for all present to stand closer together, she said, "Now,I ax everybody here to: pray for dis union dat God 'bout tomake. I wants y'all to pray dat dis here couple is gwine a staytogedder"--slw hesitated "--an' dat nothin' don't happen tocause 'em to] git sol' away from one not her And pray dat dey

has goodJ healthy young'uns. " And then very solemnly. AuntSukey; -placed a broomstick on the close-cropped grass justin; front of Kunta and Bell, whom she now motioned to link;their arms.? Kunta felt as if he were suffocating. In his mindwas! |jy.; flashing how marriages were conducted in hisJuffure. He could see the dancers, hear the praise singersand the prayers, and the talking drums relaying the gladtidings to other villages. He hoped that he would be forgivenfor F what he was doing, that whatever words were spoken totheir pagan God, Allah would understand that Kunta still;believed in Him and only Him. And then, as if from afar, heheard Aunt Sukey asking, "Now, y'all two is sho' you wants togit married?" Softly, alongside Kunta, Bell said," I does. " AndAunt Sukey turned her gaze to Kunta; he felt her eyes boringinto him. And then Bell was squeezing. his arm very hard. Heforced the words from his mouth: Iss! "I does." And then AuntSukey said, "Den, in de eyes of Jesus, y'all jump into de holylan' of matrimony." Kunta and Bell jumped high over thebroomstick together, as Bell had forced him to practice overand over the day before. He felt ridiculous doing it, but shehad. warned that a marriage would meet the very worst kind ofbad luck if the feet of either person should touch thebroomstick, and whoever did it would be the first to die. Asthey landed safely together on the other side of the broom, allthe observers applauded and cheered, and when they hadquieted. Aunt Sukey spoke again: "What God done j'ined, letno man pull asunder. Now y'all be faithful to one not her Shelooked at Kunta directly. "An' be good Christians." Aunt Sukeyturned next to look at Massa Waller. "Massa, is it anything you

cares to say for dis here occasion?" The massa clearlylooked as if he would prefer not to, but he stepped forwardand spoke softly. "He's got a good woman in Bell. And she'sgot a good boy. And my family here, along with myself, wishthem the rest of their lives of good luck." The loud cheeringthat followed from all of the slave-row people was punctuatedwith the happy squeals of little Missy Anne, who was jumpingup and down, until her mother pulled her away, and all theWall- ers went into the big house to let the blacks continue thecelebration in their own way. Aunt Sukey and other friends ofBell's had helped her cook enough pots of food that they allbut hid the top of a long table. And amid the feasting and goodcheer, everyone there but Kunta and the Ghanaian partook ofthe brandy and wines that the massa had sent up from the big-house cellar as his gift. With the fiddler playing steadily andloudly on his instrument ever since the party began, Kuntadidn't know how he'd managed to sneak a drink, but from theway he swayed as he played, it was clear that he'd managedto get hold of more than one. He had endured the fiddler'sdrinking so often that he was resigned to it, but when he sawBell busy filling and refilling her wine glass, he began to getincreasingly concerned and embarrassed. He was shocked tooverhear her exclaiming to Sister Mandy, another of herfriends, "Been had my eye on him for ten years!" And not longafter that, she wobbled over, threw her arms around him, andkissed him full on the mouth right there in front of everyone,amid crude jokes, elbows in the ribs, and uproarious laughter.Kunta was taut as a bowstring by the time the rest of theguests finally began to take their leave. Finally, they were all

alone there in the yard, and as Bell wove unsteadily towardhim, she said softly in a slurred voice, "Now you done boughtde cow, you gits all de milk you wants!" He was horrified tohear her talk so. But it wasn't long before he got over it. In fact.before many weeks had passed, he had gained considerablymore knowledge of what a big. strong, healthy woman wasreally like. His hands had explored in the darkness until nowhe knew for a certainty that Bell's big behind was entirely herown, and none of it was one of those padded bustles that hehad heard many women were wearing to make their behindslook big. Though he hadn't seen her naked--she always blewout the candles before he got the chance--he had beenpermitted to see her breasts, whose largeness he noted withsatisfaction was the kind that would supply much milk for aman child and that was very good. But it had been with horrorthat Kunta first saw the deep lash marks on Bell's back. "I'scarryin' scars to my grave jes' like my mammy did," Bell said,"but my back sure ain't as bad as your'n," and Kunta wastaken with surprise, for he hadn't seen his own back. He hadall but forgotten all those lashings, over twenty years ago. Withher warmth always beside him, Kunta greatly enjoyedsleeping in Bell's tall bad on its soft mattress, filled as it waswith cotton instead of straw or corn shucks Her handmadequilts, too, were comfortable and warm, and it was acompletely new and luxurious experience for him to sleepbetween a pair of sheets. Almost as pleasurable for him werethe nicely fitted shirts she made for him, then washed,starched, and ironed freshly every day. Bell even softened theleather of his stiff, high-topped shoes by greasing them with

tallow, and she knitted him more socks that were thicklycushioned to fit his half foot. After years of driving the massaall day and returning at night to a cold supper before crawlingonto his solitary pallet, now Bell saw to it that the same suppershe fed the massa--unless it was pork, of course--wassimmering over the fireplace in their cabin when he got home.And he liked eating on her white crockery dishes with theknives, spoons, and forks she had obviously supplied forherself from the big house. Bell had even whitewashed hercabin--he often had to remind himself that now it was theircabin--on the outside as well as the inside. All in all, he wasamazed to find that he liked almost everything about her, andhe would have rebuked himself for not having come to hissenses sooner if he hadn't been feeling too good to spendmuch time thinking about all the years he'd wasted. He justcouldn't believe how different things were, how much better lifewas, than it had been just a few months before and a fewyards away.

CHAPTER 66

As close as they'd become since they "jumped de broom,"there were times when Kunta would sense that Bell still didn'ttotally trust him. Sometimes when she was talking to him in thekitchen or the cabin, she would nearly say something, thenabruptly veer off onto another subject, filling Kunta with a rushof anger that only his pride enabled him to conceal. And onmore than one occasion, he had learned things from thefiddler or the gardener that had to have been picked up at the

massa's keyhole. It didn't matter to him what it was she wastelling them; what hurt was that she wasn't telling him, that shewas keeping secrets from her own husband. What hurt himeven more was that he had always been so open in sharingwith her and them news they might never have learnedotherwise, or at least not for a long time. Kunta began to letweeks go by without telling even Bell about whatever he hadoverheard in town. When she finally said something to himabout it, he said he guessed things had just been kind of quietlately, and maybe it's just as well because the news neverseemed to be any good. But the next time he came back fromtown, he figured she'd learned her lesson, and he told her thathe'd overheard the massa telling one of his friends that he'djust read that in New Orleans a white doctor named BenjaminRush had written recently that when his longtime blackassistant, a slave named James Derham, had learned asmuch medicine from him as he felt he knew himself, he hadset him free. "Ain't he de one what become a doctor his selfand got even mo' famous clan de man what learned him?"asked Bell. "How you know dat? Massa say he jes' read 'boutit his self an ain't nobody been here fo' you to hear him tellabout it," said Kunta, as irritated as he was perplexed. "Oh, Igot my ways," Bell replied mysteriously, changing the subject.As far as Kunta was concerned, that was the last time she'dever hear any news from him, and he didn't say another wordabout it--or almost anything else--for the next week or so.Finally Bell got the hint, and after a good dinner by candlelightthere in the cabin one Sunday night, she put her hand on hisshoulder and said quietly, "Something been hard on my mind

to tell you." Going into their bedroom, she returned in amoment with one of the Virginia Gazettes that Kunta knew shekept in a stack beneath their bed. He had always assumedthat she simply enjoyed turning the pages, as he knew somany blacks did, as well as those poor whites who walkedaround on Saturdays in the county seat with newspapersopened before their faces, though Kunta and everyone elsewho saw them knew perfectly well that they couldn't read aword. But in some way now, as he saw the secretive look onBell's face, he sensed with astonishment what she was aboutto say. "I can read some," Bell hesitated. "Massa sell me fo'sunup if'n he knowed dat." Kunta made no response, for hehad learned that Bell would do more talking on her own than ifshe was asked questions. "I's knowed some a de words eversince I was a young' un she continued. "It were de chilluns ofmy massa back den that teached me. Dey liked to playteacher, 'cause dey was going to school, an' de massa andmissis didn't pay it no tent ion on count of how de white folkstells deyselves dat niggers is too dumb to learn anythin'."Kunta thought about the old black he saw regularly at theSpotsylvania County courthouse, who had swept and moppedthere for years, with none of the whites ever dreaming that hehad copied the handwriting they left lying around on papersuntil he had gotten good enough at it to forge and signtraveling passes, which he sold to blacks. Peering hard at thetip of her forefinger as it moved down the paper's front page.Bell said finally, "Here where de House of Burgesses donemet again." She studied the print closely. "Done passed anew law 'bout taxes." Kunta was simply amazed. Bell moved

to a place farther down the page. "Right here it's something'not her 'bout dat England done sent some niggers from dereback to Africa." Bell glanced upward at Kunta. "You want meto pick out mo' what dey say 'bout dat?" Kunta nodded. Bellneeded several minutes of staring at her finger, with her lipssilently forming letters and words. Then she spoke again."Well, ain't sho 'bout it all, but fo' hunnud niggers done beensent somewheres called, look like. Sierra Leone, on land deEngland bought from a king dat's dere, an' de niggers is beengive some land apiece 'long wid some money for a 'lowance."When it seemed as if the very effort of reading had fatiguedher, she went thumbing through the inside pages, pointing outto Kunta one after another identical small figures that wererecognizable as men carrying a bundle at the end of a stickover their shoulders, and with her finger on the block of printunder one of these figures, she said, "Dat's always 'scribin'dese runaway niggers--like it was one 'bout you de las' timeyou run off. It tell what color dey is, what marks dey got on deyfaces or arms or legs or backs from being' beat or branded.An' it tell what dey was wearin' when dey run off, an sich asdat. An' den it tell who dey belongst to, and what reward being'offered to whoever catch demand bring dem back. I seen it bemuch as five hunnud, an' I seen it be where de nigger done runso much dat he massa so mad he advertise ten dollars fo' delive nigger back an' fi'teen fo' jes' his head." Finally she set thepaper down with a sigh, seemingly fatigued by the effort ofreading. "Now you knows how I found' out 'bout dat niggerdoctor. Same way de massa did." Kunta asked if she didn'tthink she might be taking chances reading the massa's paper

like that. "I'se real careful," she said. "But I tell you one time Igot scared to death wid massa," Bell added. "One day he jes'walked in on me when I s'posed to be dustin' in de livin' room,but what I was doin' was looking in one a dem books a his'n.Lawd, I like to froze. Massa jes' stood dere a minute lookin' atme. But he never said nothin'. He jes' walked out, an' from denext day to dis day it's been a lock on his bookcase." WhenBell put away the newspaper back under the bed, she wasquiet for a while, and Kunta knew her well enough by now toknow that she still had something on her mind. They wereabout ready to go to bed when she abruptly seated herself atthe table, as if she had just made up her mind aboutsomething, and with an expression both furtive and proud onher face, drew from her apron pocket a pencil and a foldedpiece of paper. Smoothing out the paper, she began to printsome letters very carefully. "You know what dat is?" sheasked, and before Kunta could say no, answered, "Well, dat'smy name. Be-1-1." Kunta stared at the penciled characters,remembering how for years he had shrunk away from anycloseness to toubob writing, thinking it contained sometoubob greegrees that might bring him harm--but he stillwasn't too sure that was so farfetched. Bell now printed somemore letters. "Dat's your name, K-u-n-t-a." She beamed up athim. Despite himself, Kunta couldn't resist bending a littlecloser to study the strange markings. But then Bell got up,crumpled the paper, and threw it onto the dying embers in thefireplace. "Ain't never gone git caught wid no writin'." Severalweeks had passed before Kunta finally decided to dosomething about an irritation that had been eating at him ever

since Bell showed him so proudly that she could read andwrite. Like their white mass as these plantation-born blacksseemed to take it for granted that those who had come fromAfrica had just climbed down from the trees, let alone had anyexperience whatever with education. So very casually oneevening after supper, he knelt down before the cabin'sfireplace and raked a pile of ashes out onto the hearth, thenused his hands to flatten and smooth them out. With Bellwatching curiously, he then took a slender whittled stick fromhis pocket and proceeded to scratch into the ashes his namein Arabic characters. Bell wouldn't let him finish, demanding,"What dat?" Kunta told her. Then, having made his point, heswept the ashes back into the fireplace, sat down in therocking chair, and waited for her to ask him how he'd learnedto write. He didn't have long to wait. and for the rest of theevening he talked, and Bell listened for a change. Tn hishalting speech, Kunta told her how all the children in his villagewere taught to write, with pens made of hollowed dried grassstalks, and ink of water mixed with crushed pot black He toldher about the arafang, and how his lessons were conductedboth mornings and evenings. Warming to his subject, andenjoying the novelty of seeing Bell with her mouth shut for awhile, Kunta told her how the students in Juffure had to be ableto read well from the Koran before they could graduate, andhe even recited for her some Koranic verses. He could tell shewas intrigued, but it seemed amazing to him that this was thevery first time in all the years he'd known her that she had evershown the slightest interest in anything about Africa. Belltapped the top of the table between them. "How y'all Africans

say 'table'?" she asked. Although he hadn't spoken inMandinka since he left Africa, the word "meso" popped fromKunta's mouth almost before he realized it, and he felt a surgeof pride. "How 'bout dot?" asked Bell, pointing at her chair."Sirango," said Kunta. He was so pleased with himself that hegot up and began to walk around in the cabin, pointing atthings. Tapping Bell's black iron pot over the fireplace, he said"kalero,"and then a candle on the table: "kandio." Astonished,Bell had risen from her chair and was following him around.Kunta nudged a burlap bag with his shoe and said "boto,"touched a dried gourd and said "mirango," then a basket thatthe old gardener had woven: "sinsingo." He led Bell on intotheir bedroom. "Larango," he said, pointing to their bed, andthen a pillow: "kunglarang." Then at the window: "janerango,"and at the roof: "kankarango." "Lawd have mercy!" exclaimedBell. That was far more respect for his homeland than he hadever expected to arouse in Bell. "Now it time to put our headon de kunglarang," said Kunta, sitting down on the edge of thebed and starting to undress. Bell knitted her brow, thenlaughed and put her arms around him. He hadn't felt so goodin a long time.

CHAPTER 67

Though Kunta still liked to visit and swap stories with thefiddler and the gardener, it didn't happen nearly as often as itused to when he was single. This was hardly surprising, sincehe spent most of his free time with Bell now. But even whenthey did get together lately, they seemed to feel differently

toward him than- before--certainly not unfriendly, butundeniably less companionable. It had been they whopractically pushed Kunta into Bell's arms, yet now that he wasmarried, they acted a little as if they were afraid it might becatching--or that it might never be; his obvious contentmentwith hearth and home didn't make them feel any warmer oncold winter nights. But if he didn't feel as close to them asbefore--in the comradeship they had shared as single men,despite their different origins--he felt somehow moreaccepted now, as if by his marrying Bell he had become oneof them. Though their 'conversations with their married friendweren't as earthy as they had sometimes been before--notthat Kunta would admit even to himself that he had everenjoyed the fiddler's crudities--they had become, with thebuilding of trust and the passage of years, even deeper andmore serious. "Scairt!" declared the fiddler one night. "Dat'show come white folks so busy countin' everybody in datcensus! Dey scairt dey's done brung mo' niggers 'mongst 'emclan dey is white folks!" declared the fiddler. Kunta said thatBell had told him she'd read in the Gazette that in Virginia, thecensus had recorded only a few more thousand whites thanblacks. "White folks scairder of free niggers clan dey is ofus'ns!" the old gardener put in. "I's beared it's near 'bout sixtythousand free niggers jes' in Virginia," the fiddler said. "So itain't no tellin' how many slave niggers. But even dis state ain'twhere demos is. Dat's down in dem states where de richestlan' make the bes' crops, an' dey got water for boats to takedey crops to de markets, an'.. " "Yeah, dem places it He's twoniggers for every white folks!" the old gardener interrupted.

"All down in dat Lou'siana Delta, an' de Yazoo Miss'ippi wheredey grows sugar cane, an' all down in dat black belt ofAlabama, South Ca'lina, and Geo'gia where dey grows all datrice an' indigo, let me tell you dat down on dem great big 'way-back-plantations, dey's got all kinds of niggers ain't neverbeen counted." "Some o' dem plantations so big dey's split upinto littler ones wid oberseers in charge," the fiddler said. "An'de mass as datowns dem big plantations is mostly dem biglawyers an' politicians an' businessmen what lives in de cities,an' dey wimminfolks don't want no parts of no plantations'ceptin' maybe to bring out fancy carriages full of dey friendsmaybe for Thanksgivin' or Christmas, or summertime picnics.""But you know what," the old gardener exclaimed, "dem richcity white folks is de very kin' 'mongst which it's dem datspeaks 'against slavery." The fiddler cut him off. "Humph! Datdon' mean nothin'! Always been some big white folks datwants de slavery 'bolished. Shoot, slavery been outlawed herein Virginia ten years now but law or no, you notice we stillslaves, an' dey still bringin' in more shiploads of niggers.""Where dey all being' taken?" asked Kunta. "Some buggydrivers I knows say dey mass as go on long trips where deydon' hardly see another black face for days at a time." "It's aplenty whole counties dat ain't even got one big plantation on'em, an' hardly no niggers at all said the gardener. "Jes' nothin'but dem little rocky farms dat's sol' for fifty cents a acre to demwhite folks so po' dey eats dirt. An' not a whole lot better offclan dem is de ones dat got not much better land an' jes' ahandful of slaves." "One place I heard 'bout ain't got no handfulo' niggers, it's dem West Indies, whatever dem is," said the

fiddler, turning to Kunta. "You know where? It's 'crost de waterlike you come from." Kunta shook his head. "Anyway." thefiddler went on, "I hears it's many as a thou san niggersb'longin' to one massa dere, raisin' and cutting' dat cane datdey makes sugar an 'lasses an' rum out of. Dey tells me awhole lots of dem ships like brung you over here stops offAfrican niggers in dem West Indies to keep 'em awhile jes' tofatten 'em up from dem long trips dat gits 'em so sick an'starved dey's near 'bout dead. Fattens 'em up, den brings 'emon here to git de better prices for niggers dat's fit to work.Leas'ways, dat's what I'se beared. " It had never failed toamaze Kunta how the fiddler and the gardener seemed toknow so much about things they'd never seen and placesthey'd never been to, for he distinctly recalled having heardboth of them say they had never been outside of Virginia andNorth Carolina. He had traveled far more widely than they had--not only all the way from Africa but also back and forth acrossthe state in the massa's buggy--but they still knew so muchmore than he did that even after all these years of talking tothem, he was finding out things he hadn't known before. Itdidn't really bother Kunta to find out how ignorant he was,since they were helping him become less so; but it troubledhim deeply to learn over the years that even he was betterinformed than the average slave. From what he'd been able toobserve, most blacks literally didn't even know where theywere, let alone who they were. "I bet you half de niggers inVirginia ain't never been off dey mass as plantations," saidBell when he raised the subject with her. "An' ain't never heardof nowhere else 'ceptin' maybe -Richmond an' Fredericksburg

an' up Nawth, an' don' have no idea where none of dem is. Dewhite folks keeps niggers ign'ant o' where dey is 'cause deyso worried 'bout niggers uprisin' or 'scapin'." Before Kuntahad the chance to recover from his surprise at hearing aninsight like this one coming from Bell rather than the fiddler orthe gardener, she spoke again. "You reckon you still would runagain ifn you had de chance?" Kunta was stunned by thequestion, and for a long time he didn't answer. Then finally hesaid, "Well, long time I ain't done no thinkin' 'bout dat." "Wholelots of times I he's thinkin' a heap o' things nobody wouldn'tfigger I does," said Bell. "Like sometime I gits to thinkin' 'boutbeing' free, like I hears 'bout dem dat gits away up to deNawth." She looked closely at Kunta. "Don' care how good demassa is, I gits to feelin' like if you an' me was younger'n weis, I believes I'd be ready to leave 'way from here tonight." AsKunta sat there astonished, she said quietly, "Reckon I'se gotto be too old and scairt now." Bell could have been readingthe thought he was having at that moment about himself, and ithit him like a fist. He was too old to run away again and toobeat up. And scared. All the pain and terror of those terribledays and nights of running came back: the blistered feet, thebursting lungs, the bleeding hands, the tearing thorns, thebaying of the hounds, the snarling jaws, the gunshots, the stingof the lash, the falling ax. Without even realizing it, Kunta hadplunged into a black depression. Knowing that she hadaroused it without meaning to, but knowing also that she'd onlymake it worse by talking about it any further, even toapologize. Bell simply got up and went to bed. When he finallyrealized that she was gone, Kunta felt badly that he had cut

her out of his thoughts. And it pained him to think howgrievously he had underestimated her and the other blacks.Though they never showed it except to those they loved, andsometimes not even then, he realized at last that they felt--andhated--no less than he the oppressiveness under which theyall lived. He wished he could find a way to tell her how sorry hewas, how he felt her pain, how grateful he was to feel her love,how strong he felt the bond between them growing deepwithin himself. Quietly he got up. went into the bedroom, tookoff his clothes, got into bed. took her in his arms. and madelove to her--and she to him--with a kind of desperate intensity.

CHAPTER 68

For several weeks, it seemed to Kunta that Bell had beenacting very oddly. For one thing, she was hardly talking; butshe wasn't even in a bad mood. And she was casting what hefelt were peculiar looks at him, then sighing loudly when hestared back. And she had begun smiling mysteriously toherself while rocking in her chair, sometimes even hummingtunes. Then one night, just after they'd blown out the candleand climbed into bed, she grasped Kunta's hand and placed ittenderly on her stomach. Something inside her movedbeneath his hand. Kunta sprang up fit to split with joy. Over thenext days, he hardly noticed where he was driving. For all heknew, the massa could have been pulling the buggy and thehorses sitting on the seat behind him, so filled was his mind'seye with visions of Bell paddling down the belong to the ricefields with his man- child bundled snugly on her back. He

thought of little else but the myriad significances of thiscoming firstborn, even as for Binta and Omoro he had beenthe firstborn. He vowed that just as they and others had donefor him in Juffure, he was going to teach this man child to be atrue man, no matter what trials and hazards that might involvehere in the land of the toubob. For it was the job of a father tobe as a giant tree to his man child For where girl childrensimply ate food until they grew big enough to marry and goaway--and girl children were their mothers' concerns, in anycase--it was the man child who carried on his family's nameand reputation, and when the time came that his parents wereold and tottering, it would be the well-reared man child who putnothing before taking care of them. Bell's pregnancy tookKunta's mind even farther back to Africa than his encounterwith the Ghanaian had done. One night, in fact, he completelyforgot Bell was in the cabin while he patiently counted out allthe pebbles in his gourd, discovering with astonishment thathe hadn't seen his homeland now for exactly 221 rains. Butmost evenings she would be talking almost steadily while hesat there hearing less than usual and gazing off at nothing."He jes' go off into his Africanisms," Bell would tell Aunt Sukey,and after a while Bell would rise unnoticed from her chair,quietly leave the room--muttering to herself--and go to sleepalone. It had been one such night when, about an hour aftershe'd gone to bed, Kunta was snapped back to the cabin bymoans from the bedroom. Was it time? Rushing in, he foundher still asleep, but rolling back and forth on the verge ofscreaming. When he leaned over to touch her cheek, she satbolt upright there in the darkness, soaked with sweat and

breathing hard. "Lawd, I'm scairt to death for dis baby in mybelly!" she said as she put her arms around him. Kunta didn'tunderstand until she composed herself enough to tell how shehad dreamed that at a white folks' party game, they hadannounced that the first prize would be the next black baby tobe born on that massa's plantation. Bell was so distraught thatKunta found himself in the unaccustomed role of calming herwith assurances that she knew Massa Waller never would dosuch a thing. He made her agree with that, then climbed intobed alongside her, and finally she went back to sleep. ButKunta didn't; he lay thinking for quite some time of how he hadheard of such things being done--of unborn black babiesbeing given as presents, wagered as gambling bets at cardtables and cockfights. The fiddler had told him how the dyingmassa of a pregnant fifteen-year-old black girl named Maryhad willed as slaves to each of his five daughters one apieceof her first five babies. He had heard of black children beingsecurity for loans, of creditors claiming them while they wereyet in their mother's belly, of debtors selling them in advanceto raise cash. At that time in the Spotsylvania County seatslave auctions, he knew the average price that was beingasked and paid for a healthy black baby past six months ofage--when it was assumed then that it would live--was aroundtwo hundred dollars. None of this was very far from his mindwhen Bell laughingly told him one evening in the cabin aboutthree months later that during the day the inquisitive MissyAnne had demanded to know why Bell's belly was growing sobig. "I tol' Missy Anne, "I got a li'l biscuit in de oven, honey." "Kunta was hardly able to keep Bell from seeing his anger at

the attention and affection she lavished on that pampered,doll-like child, who was to him but another in the seeminglyendless parade of " li'l missies" and " li'l mass as he had seenat so many big houses. Now with Bell about to have a child ofher own--and his own--it incensed him to think about thefirstborn son of Kunta and Bell Kinte romping in "play" withtoubob children who would grow up to become their mass as--and sometimes even 'the fathers of their own children. AndKunta had been to more than a few plantations where one ofthe slave children was almost the same color as his massa's--in fact, they often looked like twins--because both of them hadthe same white father. Before Kunta let anything like thathappen to Bell, he vowed that he would kill the massa ratherthan become one of those men he had seen holding theirwife's "high-yaller" baby and living somehow with theknowledge that if he uttered publicly so much as acomplaining word, he would certainly get beaten, if not worse.Kunta thought about how "high-yaller" slave girls brought highprices at the county seat slave auctions. He had seen thembeing sold, and he had heard many times about the purposesfor which they were bought. And he thought of the many storieshe had heard about "highyaller" man children--about how theywere likely to get mysteriously taken away as babies never tobe seen again, because of the white fear that otherwise theymight grow up into white-looking men and escape to wherethey weren't known and mix the blackness in their blood withthat of white women. Every time Kunta thought about anyaspect of blood mixing, he would thank Allah that he and Bellcould share the comfort of knowing that whatever otherwise

might prove to be His will, their man child was going to beblack. It was early one night in September of 1790 when thelabor pains began to take hold of Bell. But she wouldn't yet letKunta go for the massa, who had said that he wouldpersonally attend her, with Sister Mandy to be in readiness ashis assistant if he should need her. Each time the pains came.Bell lay on the bed gritting her teeth to keep from crying out,and she would tighten her grip on Kunta's hand with thestrength of a man. It was during one of the brief intervalsbetween the pains that Bell turned her sweating face to Kuntaand said, "It's something I oughta tol' you 'fore now. I's alreadydone had two chilluns, long time ago, 'fore I ever come here,'tore 1 was sixteen years of'." Kunta stood looking down at theanguished Bell, astounded. Had he known this--no, he wouldhave married her anyway--but he felt betrayed that she hadn'ttold him before. Making herself gasp out the words betweencontractions. Bell told him about the two daughters from whomshe had been sold away. "Jes' nothin' but babies is all deywas." She began to weep. "One was jes' startin' to walk good,an' de othern weren't a year old hardly."--She started to go on,but a spasm of pain clamped her mouth shut and tightenedher grip on his hand. When it finally subsided, her grip didn'tloosen; she looked up at him through her tears andreading hisracing thoughts--said, "Case you wond'rin', dere daddyweren't no massa or no oberseer. Was a field nigger 'bout myage. We didn't know no better." The pains came again, muchsooner than before, and her nails dug into his palm as hermouth opened wide in a soundless scream. Kunta rushedfrom the cabin down to Sister Mandy's hut, where he banged

the door and called to her hoarsely, then ran on as fast as hecould go to the big house. His knocking and calling finallybrought Massa Waller, who needed but one glance at Kunta tosay, "I'll be right there!" Hearing Bell's anguished moans riseinto shrieks that went ripping through the quiet of slave rowpushed from Kunta's mind any thought of what Bell hadrevealed to him. As much as he wanted to be by Bell's side,he was glad Sister Mandy had ordered him outside, where hesquatted at the door trying to imagine what must be going oninside. He had never learned much about childbirth in Africa,since that was considered women's affair, but he had heardthat a woman birthed a child while kneeling over cloths spreadon the floor, then sat in a part of water to clean away the blood,and he wondered if that's what was happening now. Itoccurred to Kunta that far away in Juffure, Binta and Omorowere becoming grandparents, and it saddened him to knownot only that they would never see his man child--or he them--but also that they would never know he'd had one. Hearing thefirst sharp cries of another voice, Kunta sprang upright. A fewminutes later, the massa emerged looking haggard. "She hada hard time. She's forty-three years old," he said to Kunta."But she'll be fine in a couple of days." The massa gesturedtoward the cabin door. "Give -Mandy a little while to clean up,then you go on in there and see your baby girl." A girlchi}dlKunta was still struggling to compose himself when SisterMandy appeared at the doorway, smiling and beckoning himinside. Gripping through the front room, he pushed aside thecurtain at the bedroom door and there they were. As hemoved quietly to her side, a floorboard squeaked and Bell

opened her eyes, managing a weak smile. Absently, he foundher hand and squeezed, but he scarcely felt it, for he couldn'tstop staring at the face of the infant who lay beside her. It wasalmost as black as his, and the features were unmistakablyMandinka. Though it was a girl child--which must be the will ofAllah--it was nonetheless a child, and he felt a deep pride andserenity in the knowledge that the blood of the Kintes, whichhad coursed down through the centuries like a mighty river,would continue to flow for still another generation. Kunta's nextthoughts, standing there at the bedside, were of a fitting namefor his child. Though he knew enough not to ask the massa foreight days off from work to spend deciding on it, as a newfather would in Africa, he knew that the matter would requirelong and serious reflection, for he knew that what a child wascalled would really influence the kind of person he or shebecame. Then it flashed into his mind that whatever name hegave her, she would be also called by the last name of themassa; the thought was so infuriating that Kunta vowed beforeAllah that this girl child would grow up knowing her own truename. Abruptly, without a word, he turned and left. With the skyjust beginning to show the traces of early dawn, he wentoutside and started walking down along the fence- row wherehe and Bell had shared their courtship. He had to think.Remembering what she had told him about her life's greatestgrief--having been sold away from her two infant girl children--he searched his mind for a name, some Mandinka word, thatwould have as its meaning Bell's deepest wish never to suffersuch a loss again, a name that would protect its owner fromever losing her. Suddenly he had it! Turning the word over and

over in his mind, he resisted the temptation to speak it aloud,even just for himself, for that would have been improper. Yes,that had to be it! Exhilarated with his good luck in such a shortwhile, Kunta hurried back along the fence row to the cabin. Butwhen he told Bell that he was prepared for his child to benamed, she protested far more strongly than be would havethought her capable of in her condition. "What's sich a rush toname 'er? Name 'er what? We ain't talked 'bout no namenohow!" Kunta knew well how stubborn Bell could be once shegot her back up, so there was anguish as well as anger in hisvoice as he searched for the. right words to explain that therewere certain traditions that must be honored, certainprocedures that must be followed in the naming of a child;chief among them was the selection of that name by the fatheralone, who was permitted to tell no one what it was until hehad revealed it to the child, and that this was only right. Hewent on to say that haste was essential lest their child hearfirst some name that the massa might decide upon for her."Now I sees!" said Bell. "Dese Africanisms you so full of ain'tgon' do nothin' but make trouble. An' dey ain't gon' be none ofdem heathen ways an names, neither, for dis chile!" In a fury,Kunta stormed out of the cabin--and nearly bumped into AuntSukey and Sister Mandy on their way in with armloads oftowels and steaming pots of water. " Gratulations, Br'er Toby,we comin' to look in on Bell. " But Kunta scarcely grunted atthem as he passed. A field hand named Cato was headed outto ring the first bell of the morning, signaling the others out oftheir cabins for buckets of water from the well to wash up withbefore break last Kunta quickly turned ott slave row to take the

back path lhat led to the barn, wanting as much distance as hecould get between him and those heathen blacks whom thetoubob had trained to shrink away in fear from anythingsmacking of the Africa that had been their very source-place.In the sanctuary of the barn, Kunta angrily fed, watered, andthen rubbed down the horses. When he knew that it was timefor the massa to have his breakfast, he took the long wayaround again on his way to the big-house kitchen door, wherehe asked Aunt Sukey, who was filling in for Bell, if the massawas going to need the buggy. Refusing to speak or even turnaround, she shook her head and left the room without evenoffering him any food. Limping back to the barn, Kuntawondered what Bell had told Aunt Sukey and Sister Mandy forthem to go gossiping through slave row; then he told himselfthat he couldn't care less. He had to do something withhimself; he couldn't just idle away more hours around the barn.Moving outside with the buggy harnesses, he set about hisfamiliar task of killing time by oiling them unnecessarily, as hehad just done only two weeks before. He wanted to go back tothe cabin to see the baby--and even Bell--but anger roseevery time he thought of what a disgrace it was that the wife ofa Kinte could want her child to bear some toubob name, whichwould be nothing but the first step toward a lifetime of self-contempt. About noontime, Kunta saw Aunt Sukey taking in toBell a pot of some food--some kind of soup, probably. It madehim hungry to think about it; a few minutes later he went outbehind the barn where some recently harvested sweetpotatoes had been mounded under straw for curing, pickedout four of the smaller ones, and--feeling very sorry for himself-

-ate them raw to appease his stomach. Dusk was descendingbefore he could bring himself to go home. When he openedthe front door and walked in, there was no sound of responsefrom Bell in the bedroom. She could be asleep, he thought,leaning over to light a candle on the table. "Dat you?" Hecould detect no special harshness in Bell's tone. Gruntingnoncommittally, he picked up the candle, pushed aside thecurtain, and went into the bedroom. In the ruddy glow, he couldsee that the expression on her face was as adamant as hisown. "Looka here, Kunta," she said, wasting no time getting tothe point, "it's some things I knows 'bout our massa bet ternyou does. You git him mad wid dat African stuff, he sells us allthree at-de next county seat auction jes' sho's we born!"Containing the anger within him as well as he could, Kuntastumbled for the words that could make Bell understand theabsoluteness of his determination that whatever the risks, hischild would bear no toubob name, and that moreover shewould be given her name in the proper manner. As deeply asBell disapproved, she was even more apprehensive of whatKunta might do if she refused. So with deep misgivings, shefinally acquiesced. "What kin' o' voodoo you got to do?" sheasked dubiously. When he said he was simply going to takethe baby outdoors for a while, she insisted that he wait untilthe child awakened and she had nursed her so that shewouldn't be hungry and crying, and Kunta immediately agreed.Bell reckoned that the baby wouldn't wake up for at leastanother two hours, by which time it would be most unlikely thatanyone in slave row would still be up to see whatever mumbojumbo Kunta was going to perform. Though she didn't show it,

Bell was still angry that Kunta prevented her from helping himpick a name for the daughter she had just brought into theworld amid such agony; and she dreaded finding out whatAfrican-sounding, forbidden name Kunta had come up with,but she was sure that she could deal with the baby's namelater in her own way. It was near midnight when Kuntaemerged from the cabin, carrying his firstborn wrapped snuglyin a blanket. He walked until he felt they were far enough fromslave row that it couldn't cast a pall over what was about totake place. Then, under the moon and the stars, Kunta raisedthe baby upward, turning the blanketed bundle in his hands sothat the baby's right ear touched against his lips. And thenslowly and distinctly, in Mandinka, he whispered three timesinto the tiny ear, "Your name is Kizzy. Your name is Kizzy. Yourname is Kizzy. " It was done, as it had been done with all ofthe Kinte ancestors, as it had been done with himself, as itwould have been done with this infant had she been born inher ancestral homeland. She had become the first person toknow who she was. Kunta felt Africa pumping in his veins--andflowing from him into the child, the flesh of him and Bell--as hewalked on a little farther. Then again he stopped, and lifting asmall corner of the blanket he bared the infant's small blackface to the heavens, and this time he spoke aloud to her inMandinka: "Behold, the only thing greater than yourself!"When Kunta returned with the baby to the cabin. Bell all butsnatched her away, her face tight with fear and resentment asshe opened the blanket and examined her from head to toe,not knowing what she was looking for and hoping she wouldn'tfind it. Satisfied that he hadn't done anything unspeakable--at

least nothing that showed--she put the baby to bed, cameback into the front room, sat down in the chair across fromhim, folded her hands carefully in her lap, and asked, "Awright,lemme have it." "Have what?" "De name, African, what youcall her?" "Kizzy." "Kizzy! Ain't nobody never beared no namelike dat!" Kunta explained that in Mandinka "Kizzy" meant "yousit down," or "you stay put," which, in turn, meant that unlikeBell's previous two babies, this child would never get soldaway. She refused to be placated. "Jes' start troubles!" sheinsisted. But when she felt Kunta's anger starting to rise againshe thought it would be wise to relent. She said she seemedto recall her mother speaking of a grandmother whose namewas "Kibby," which sounded very much the same; at leastthat's what they could tell the massa if he got suspicious. Thenext morning. Bell did her best to hide her nervousness whenthe massa came to look in on her--even forcing herself tolaugh good-naturedly as she told him the baby's name. Heonly commented that it was an odd name, but he said nothingagainst it, and Bell breathed a heavy sigh of relief the momenthe stepped out the door. Back in the big house, before leavingfor a day of visiting his patients with Kunta driving him, MassaWaller opened the large black Bible that he kept locked in acase in the drawing room, turned to a page devoted toplantation records, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and wrote infine black script: "Kizzy Waller, born September 12, 1790."

CHAPTER 69

"She jes' like a li'l nigger doll!" squealed Missy Anne, hopping

ecstatically up and down, clapping her hands with delight, asshe saw Kizzy for the first time three days later in Bell'skitchen. "Cain't she be mine?" Bell smiled widely withpleasure. "Well, she belongs! to me an' her daddy, honey, butjes' soon's she big enough, you sho' can play wid her all youwants!" And so she did. As often as not, whenever Kunta wentto the kitchen now to find out if the buggy would be needed, orsimply to visit Bell, he would find the massa's flaxen-hairedlittle niece--four years old now--bent over the edge of Kizzy'sbasket cooing down at her. "Jes' pretty as you can be. Wegonna have plenty fun soon's you get some size, you hearme? You jes' hurry up an' grow, now!" Kunta never saidanything about it, but it galled him to think how that toubobchild acted as if Kizzy had entered the world to serve as herplaything, like some extraordinary doll. Bell hadn't evenrespected his manhood and fatherhood enough to ask hisfeelings about his daughter playing with the daughter of theman who bought him, he thought bitterly. It seemed to himsometimes that Bell was less concerned about his feelingsthan she was about the massa's. He'd lost count of theevenings she'd spent talking about what a blessing it was thatlittle Missy Anne had come along to replace Massa Waller'sreal daughter, who had died at birth along with her mother."Oh, Lawd, I jes' even hates to think back on it," she told himsniffing one night. "Po' li'l pretty Missis Priscilla weren't hardlyno bigger'n a bird. Walkin' roun' here every day singin' toherself an' smilin' at me an' pattin' herself, jes' waitin' for herbaby's time. An' den dat mornin' jes." a-sereamin' and finallydyin', her an' de li'l baby gal, too! Look like I ain't hardly seen

po' massa do no smilin' since---leastways not 'til dis here li'lMissy Anne. " Kunta felt no pity for the massa's loneliness, butit seemed to him that getting married again would keep themassa too busy to spend so much time doting on his niece,and that way would almost certainly cut down on Missy Anne'svisits to the plantation--and therefore to play with Kizzy. "Eversince then I been watchin' how massa git dat li'l gal in his lap,hoi' her close, talk to her, sing her to sleep, an' den jes' set ondere holdin' her ruthern put her to bed. Jes' act like he don'tnever want his eyes to leave her all de time she be roun' here.An' I know it's 'cause he's her daddy in his heart." It could onlydispose the massa even more kindly toward both of them, notto mention toward Kizzy, Bell would tell him, for Missy Anne tostrike up a friendship that would bring her over to the massa'shouse even more often than before. Nor could it hurt MassaJohn and his sickly wife, she reasoned slyly, that theirdaughter was developing a special closeness to her uncle, "'cause den de closer dey figgers dey is to massa's money."However important the massa's brother acted, she said sheknew for a fact that he borrowed from the massa now andthen, and Kunta knew enough not to disbelieve her--not that hereally cared which toubob was richer than which, since theywere all alike to him. Oftentimes now, since Kizzy's arrival, asKunta drove the massa around to see his patients and hisfriends, he would find himself sharing the wish Bell had oftenexpressed that the massa would marry again--althoughKunta's reasons were entirely different from Bell's. "He jes'He's so pitiful to me livin' all by his self in dis big house. Fact, Ibelieves dat's how come he keep y'all always out dere in de

buggy on dem roads, he jes' want to keep his self movin',ruthern settin' roun' here by his self Lawd, even UTol' MissyAnne sees it! Las' time she was here, I was servin' dem lunchan' all of a sudden she say, "Uncle William, how come youain't got no wife like everybody else?" An' po' thing, he didn'tknow what to say to her. " Though he had never told Bell aboutit because he knew how much she loved prying into toubobaffairs, Kunta knew of several women who would run almoston their tiptoes out to meet the massa's buggy wheneverKunta turned into their driveway. The fat black cook of one ofmassa's more incurable patients had told Kunta scornfully,"Dat hateful huzzy ain't got nothin' wrong dat catchin' yo'massa wouldn't cure mighty fast. She done already drive oneman to de grave wid her ornery, evil ways, an' now she jes'claimin' sickness to keep yo' massa comin' back here. I sho'wish he could see her soon's y'all leave, a-hollerin' an' carryin'on at us niggers like we was mules or something', an' shedon't never touch dem medicines he give 'er!" There wasanother woman patient who would always come onto her frontporch with the massa as he left, clinging to one of his arms asif she might fall, and looking up into his face while fluttering herfan weakly. But with both of these women, the massa alwaysacted very stiff and formal, and his visits always seemed to beshorter than with his other patients. So the months kept onrolling past, with Missy Anne being brought to visit MassaWaller about twice a week, and each time she came she'dspend hours playing with Kizzy. Though he was helpless to doanything about it, Kunta tried at least to avoid seeing themtogether, but they seemed to be everywhere he turned, and he

couldn't escape the sight of his little girl being patted, kissed,or fondled by the massa's niece. It filled him with revulsion--and reminded him of an African saying so old that it had comedown from the forefathers: "In the end, the cat always eats themouse it's played with." The only thing that made it bearablefor Kunta was the days and nights in between her visits. It wassummer by the time Kizzy began to crawl, and Bell and Kuntawould spend the evenings in their cabin watching with delightas she scuttled about the floor with her little diapered behindupraised. But then Missy Anne would show up again and offthey'd go, with the older girl frisking in circles around hershouting, "C'mon, Kizzy, c'mon!" and Kizzy crawling in pursuitas quickly as she could, gurgling with pleasure at the gameand the attention. Bell would beam with pleasure, but she'dknow that even if Kunta was away driving the massa, he onlyneeded to find out that Missy Anne had been there to return tothe cabin that night with his face set and his lips compressed,and for the rest of the night he would be totally withdrawn,which Bell found extremely irritating. But when she consideredwhat might happen if Kunta should ever exhibit his feelingseven vaguely in any manner that might reach the massa, shewas also a little frightened when he acted that way. So Belltried to convince Kunta that no harm could come of therelationship if only he could bring himself to accept it.Oftentimes, she told him, white girls grew up into lifetimes oftrue devotion and even deep loyalties to black childhoodplaymates. " To' you commence to driving de buggy," shesaid, "dey was a white missis died havin' a chile--jes' like hisown missis did--only dis time de baby girl lived an' got

suckled by a nigger woman what jes' had a baby girl o' herown. Dem li'l gals had growed up near 'bout like sisters whendat massa married again. But dat new missis was so strong'against dem gals being' close, she finally 'suaded dat massato sell away de black gal an' her mammy both." But themoment they were gone, she went on, the white girl went intosuch continuing hysterics that time and again Massa Wallerwas sent for, until finally be told the father that furtherweakness and grief would kill his daughter unless the blackgirl was returned. "Dat massa was 'bout ready to whip datnew wife of his'n. He lef on his ridin' boss an' ain't no tellin'how much he must o' spent trackin down de nigger trader dattook de gal an' her mammy away, an' den bvcyirf dem backfrom de new massa de nigger trader had sol' dem to. But hebrung back dat black gal an' got a lawyer an deeded her overto be de property o' his own gal." And Bell said that even now,years later, though that white girl had grown to womanhood,she had never entirely regained her health. "De black one stilllivin' right wid her an' takin' care of her, an' neither one ain'tnever even married!" "As far as Kunta was concerned, if Bellhad intended her story as an argument against friendshipbetween blacks and whites rather than in tavor of it, she couldhardly have made a more eloquent case.

CHAPTER 70

From about the time Kizzy had been born, both Kunta and thefiddler had returned to the plantation now and then with newsabout some island across the big water called "Haiti," where it

was said that around thirty-six thousand mostly French whileswere outnumbered by about half a million blacks who hadbeen brought there on ships from Africa to slave on hugeplantations growing sugar cane, coffee, indigo, and cocoa.One night Bell said she had heard Massa Waller telling hisdinner guests that reportedly Haiti's rich class of whites livedlike kings while snubbing the many poorer whites who couldn'tafford slaves of their own. " Magin' dat! Who ever beared o'such a thing? " said the fiddler sarcastically. "Hush!" said Bell,laughing, and went on to say that the massa then told hishorrified guests that for several generations in Haiti, so muchbreeding had gone on between white men and slave womenthat there were now almost twenty-eight thousand mulattoesand high-yallers, commonly called "colored people," of whomnearly all had been given freedom by their French owners andfathers. According to one of the other guests, said Bell, these"colored people" invariably sought yet lighter-complexionedmates, with their goal being children of entirely whiteappearance, and those who remained visibly mulatto wouldbribe officials for documents declaring that their forefathershad been Indians or Spanish or anything but Afri- cans. Asastonishing as he found it to believe, and as deeply as hedeplored it, Massa Waller had said that through the gift deedsor the last wills of many whites, quite a sizable number ofthese "coloreds" had come to own at least one tilth of all theHaitian land--and its slaves--that they vacationed in Franceand schooled their children there just as the rich whites did,and even snubbed poor whites. Bell's audience was asdelighted to hear that as the massa's had been scandalized.

"You gon' laugh out o' de other sides you' moufs," the fiddlerinterrupted, "when you hears what I beared some o' dem richmass as talkin' 'bout at one o' dem society co- tillyums Iplayed at a while back." The mass as he said, were noddingtheir heads as they discussed how those poor whites down inHaiti hated those mulattoes and high-yallers so much thatthey'd signed petitions until France finally passed lawsprohibiting "coloreds" from walking about at night, from sittingalongside whites in churches, or even from wearing the samekind of fabrics in their clothes. In the meantime, said thefiddler, both whites and "coloreds" would take out theirbitterness toward each other on Haiti's half-million blackslaves. Kunta said he had overheard talk in town amonglaughing whites that made it sound as if Haitian slaves weresuffering worse than here. He said he'd heard that blacksgetting beaten to death or buried alive as punishment wascommonplace, and that pregnant black women were oftendriven at work until they miscarried. Since he felt it wouldn'thave served any purpose other than to terrify them, he didn'ttell them that he had heard about even more inhumanbestialities, such as a black man's hands being nailed to awall until he was forced to eat his own cut-off ears; a toubobwoman having all her slaves' tongues cut out; another gagginga black child's mouth until he starved. In the wake of suchhorror stories over the past nine or ten months, it didn'tsurprise Kunta, on one of his trips to town during this summerof 1791, to learn that Haiti's black slaves had risen in a wild,bloody revolt. Thousands of them had swept forthslaughtering, clubbing, and beheading white men, gutting

children, raping women, and burning every plantation buildinguntil northern Haiti lay in smoking ruins and the terrorizedescaped white population was fighting to stay alive andlashing back--torturing, killing, even skinning every black theycould catch. But they had been only a handful of survivorssteadily dwindling before the wildly spreading black revolt,until by the end of August the few remaining thousands ofwhites still alive were in hiding places or trying to flee theisland. Kunta said he had never seen Spotsylvania County'stoubob so angry and afraid. "Seem like dey's even scairderclan de las' uprisin' right here in Virginia," said the fiddler."Was maybe two, three years after you come, but you stillweren't hardly talkin' to nobody, so don' reckon you evenknowed it. Was right over yonder in New Wales, in Han- overCounty, during one Christmas time. A oberseer beat someyoung nigger to de groun', an' dat nigger sprung up an' went athim wid a ax. But he missed 'im, an' de other niggers jumpedde oberseer an beat 'im so bad dat de first nigger come an'saved his life. Dat oberseer went run- run' for help, all bloody,an' meanwhile dem mad niggers caught two more white mensan' tied 'em up and was beating on 'em when a great bigbunch a' whites come a-runnin' wid guns. Dem niggers tookcover in a barn, an' de white folks tried to sweet-talk 'em tocome on out, but dem niggers come a-rushin' wid barrelstaves an' clubs, an' it woun' up wid two niggers shot dead an'a lot of both white mens an' niggers hurt. Dey put out militiapatrols, an' some mo' laws was passed, an' sich as dat, till itsimmered down. Dis here Haiti thing done freshened whitefolks' minds, 'cause dey knows jes' good as me it's a whole

heap o' niggers right under dey noses wouldn't need nothin'but de right spark to rise up right now, an' once dat ever get tospreadin', yessuh, it be de same as Haiti right here inVirginia." The fiddler clearly relished the thought. Kunta wassoon to see the whites' fright for himself wherever he drove inthe towns, or near the crossroads stores, taverns, churchmeeting houses or wherever else they gathered in small,agitated clusters, their faces red and scowling whenever he orany other black passed nearby. Even the massa, who rarelyspoke to Kunta other than to tell him where he wanted t& bedriven, made even those words noticeably colder and moreclipped. Within a week, the Spotsylvania County militia waspatrolling the roads, demanding to know the destination andto inspect the traveling permit of any passing blacks, andbeating and jailing any they thought acted or even lookedsuspicious. At a meeting of the area's mass as the soonapproaching big annual harvest frolic for slaves was canceled,along with all other black gatherings beyond home plantations;and even any home slave-row dancing or prayer meetingswere to be watched by an overseer or some other white."When massa tol' me dat, I tol' him me an' Aunt Sukey an'Sister Mandy gits on our knees an' prays to Jesus togedderevery Sunday an' any other chance we gits, but he ain't saynothing 'bout watchin' us, so we gon' keep right on pray in'1"Bell told the others on slave row. Alone at home with Kuntaand Kizzy for the next several nights, in search of the latestnews. Bell spelled her way through several newspapers themassa thought he had discarded. It took her the better part ofan hour on one big story before she could tell him that "some

kin' o' Bill o' Rights done got..." Bell hesitated and drew adeep breath, "well, it done got rat-ti-fied, or something' not herBut there were far more reports about recent events in Haiti--most of which they'd already heard through the slavegrapevine. The gist of most of them, she said, was that theHaitian slave revolt could easily spread foolhardy notionsamong black malcontents in this country, that extremerestrictions and harsh punishments should be imposed. Asshe folded up the papers and put them away. Bell said, " Looklike to me ain't much more dey can do 'against us, less'n it'sjes' chain us all up, I reckon. " Over the next month or two,however, news of further developments in Haiti slowly ebbed,and with it came a gradual easing of tensions--and alightening of restrictions--throughout the South, The harvestseason had begun,! and whites were congratulating oneanother on the bumper cotton crop--and the record prices theywere getting for it. The fiddler was being sent for to play at somany big- house balls and parties that during the daytimewhen he i was back home, he did little more than sleep. "Looklike dem mass as makin' so much cotton money dey jes'gwine dance deyselves to death!" he told Kunta. It wasn't long,however, until the white folks had some-: thing to be unhappyabout again. On his visits to the county seat with the massa,Kunta began to hear angry talk, of increasing numbers of"antislavery societies" organized! by "traitors to the whiterace" not only in the North but also in the South. Highlydubious, he told Bell what he had. heard, and she said she'dbeen reading the same thing itt the massa's newspapers,which attributed their recent andi rapid growth to Haiti's black

revolt. "Keeps tryin' tell you it's some good white folks!" sheexclaimed. "Fact of de matter, 1'se beared a whole heap of'em was 'against de firs' ships ever bringin' any y'all Africanniggers here!" Kunta wondered where on earth Bell thoughther own grandparents had come from, but she was so woundup that he let it pass. " " Co'se, anytime something' like dathe's in de paper," she went on, " de mass as gits riled up,rantin' an' hollerin' 'bout enemies of de country an' sich as dat,but what's port ant is de mo' white folks 'against slavery sayswhat dey thinks, den de mo' of dem mass as git to wonderin'in dey secret heart is dey right or not. " She stared at Kunta. ""Specially dem callin' deyselves Christians." She looked athim again, a slyness in her eyes. "What you think me an' AuntSukey an' Sister Mandy he's talkin' 'bout dese Sundaysmassa think we Jes' singin' an' prayin'? I follows white folksclose. Take dem Quakers. Dey was 'against slavin' even 'fo'dat Rebolurion. I means right here in Virginia," she went on."An' plenty o' dem was mass as ownin' a heap o' niggers. Butden preachers commence to sayin' niggers was humanbein's, wid rights to be free like anybody else, an' you'members some Quaker mass as started to lettin' dey niggersloose, an' even helpin' 'em git up Nawth. By now it done got towhere de Quakers dat's still keepin' dey niggers is being'talked 'bout by de res', an' I'se beared if dey still don't let demniggers go, dey gwine git disowned by dey church. Gwine onright today, sho' is!" Bell exclaimed. "An dem Methodists is denex' bes'. I 'members readin' ten, 'leben years back,Methodists called a great big meetin' in Baltimore, an' finallydey 'greed slavin' was 'against Gawd's laws an' dat anybody

callin' his self Christian wouldn't have it did to deyselves. Soit's mostly de Methodists an' Quakers makin' church fuss to gitlaws to free niggers. Dem Baptist an' Presbyterian whitefolks--dat's what massa an' all de Wallers is--well, dey seemslike to me jes' halfhearted. Dey's mostly worried 'bout dey ownfreedom to worship like dey pleases, an' den how dey cankeep a clear conscience an' dey niggers bofe." For all ofBell's talk of whites who were against slavery--even thoughshe had read some of it in the massa's own newspaper--Kunta had never once heard a toubob opinion expressed thatwas not absolutely the opposite. And during that spring andsummer of 1792, the massa shared his buggy with some ofthe biggest and richest mass as politicians, lawyers, andmerchants in the state. Unless something else was morepressing, their ever-ready topic of conversation was theproblems created for them by blacks. Whoever wouldsuccessfully manage slaves, someone would always say,must first understand that their African pasts of living in jungleswith animals gave them a natural inheritance of stupidity,laziness, and unclean habits, and that the Christian duty ofthose God had blessed with superiority was to teach thesecreatures some sense of discipline, morality, and respect forwork--through example, of course, but also with laws andpunishment as needed, although encouragement and rewardsshould certainly be given to those who proved deserving. Anylaxity on the part of whites, the conversation always continued,would simply invite the kind of dishonesty, tricks, and cunningthat came naturally to a lower species, and the bleatings ofantislavery societies and others like them could come only

from those, particularly in the North, who had never owned anyblack ones themselves or tried to run a plantation with them;such people couldn't be expected to realize how one'spatience, heart, spirit, and very soul could be strained to thebreaking point by the trials and burdens of owning slaves.Kunta had been listening to the same outrageous nonsensefor so long that it had become like a litany to him, and hehardly paid any attention to it anymore. But sometimes. whilehe drove along, he couldn't help asking himself why it was thathis countrymen didn't simply kill every toubob who set foot onAfrican soil. He was never able to give himself an answer thathe was able to accept.

CHAPTER 71

It was about the noon hour on a sultry day late in August whenAunt Sukey came waddling as fast as she could out to thefiddler among his tomato plants and--between gasps--told himthat she was worried to death about the old gardener. Whenhe didn't come to her cabin for breakfast, she hadn't thoughtanything about it, she said breathlessly, but when he didn'tappear for lunch either, she became concerned, went to hiscabin door, knocked, and called as loudly as she could, butgot no answer, became alarmed, and thought she'd bettercome to find out if the fiddler had seen him anywhere. Hehadn't. "Knowed it somehow or not her even 'fore I went indere," the fiddler told Kunta that night. And Kunta said that hehad been unable to explain an eerie feeling he had himself ashe had driven the massa homeward that afternoon. "He was

jes' lyin dere in bed real peaceful like," said the fiddler, "wid ali'l smile on 'is face. Look like he sleepin'. But Aunt Sukey sayhe awready waked up in heab'm." He said he had gone totake the sad news out to those working in the fields, and theboss field hand Cato returned with him to help wash the bodyand place it on a cooling board. Then they had hung the oldgardener's sweat-browned straw hat on the outside of hisdoor in the traditional sign of mourning before the fieldworkers returned and gathered in front of the cabin to pay theirlast respects, and then Cato and another field hand went todig a grave. Kunta returned to his cabin feeling doublygrieved--not only because the gardener was dead, but alsobecause he hadn't been visiting him as much as he couldhave ever since Kizzy was born. It had just seemed that therewas hardly enough time anymore; and now it was too late. Hearrived to find Bell in tears, which he expected, but he wastaken aback at the reason she gave for crying. "Jes' alwaysseem like to me he was de daddy I ain't never seed," shesobbed. "Don't know how come I didn't never let him know, butit ain't gon' never seem de same widout him being roun' here."She and Kunta ate their supper in silence before taking Kizzywith them--bundled against the cool autumn night--to join theothers "settin' wid de dead" until late into the night. Kunta sat alittle apart from the others, with the restless Kizzy on his lapduring the first hour of prayers and soft singing, and thensome hushed conversation was begun by Sister Mandy,asking if anyone there could recall the old man ever havingmentioned any living relatives. The fiddler said, "One time'way back I 'members he said he never knowed his mammy.

Dat's all I ever beared him say of family." Since the fiddler hadbeen the closest among them to the old man, and he wouldknow if anyone did, it was decided that there was probably noone to whom word should be sent. Another prayer was said,another song was sung, then Aunt Sukey said, "Seem like hedone always belonged to some a' de Wallers. I'se beared himtalk 'bout de massa ridin' on his shoulders as a boy, so Ireckon dat's why massa bring him here later on when he gothis own big house." "Massa real sorry, too," said Bell. "He sayfor me to tell y'all won't be no workin' for halfa day tomorra.""Well, leas' he gwine git buried right," said Ada, the field-handmother of the boy Noah, who sat impassively beside her. "It'sa-plenty o' mass as jes' 'lows you to quit workin' long enoughto come look at de dead nigger 'fore he git stuck in de groundstill warm." "Well, all dese Wallers is quality white folks, sowouldn't none us here have to worry 'bout dat," said Bell.Others started talking then about how rich plantation ownerssometimes staged very elaborate funerals for usually eitherlong-time big-house cooks or for the old mammies who hadsuckled and helped to raise two or even three broods of thefamily's children. "Dey even gits buried in de white folks'graveyards, wid flat rocks to mark where dey is." What aheartwarming--if somewhat belated--reward for a lifetime oftoil, thought Kunta bitterly. He remembered the gardenertelling him that he had come to the massa's big house as astrong young stable hand which he had remained for manyyears until he was kicked badly by a horse. He stayed on thejob, but gradually he had become more and more disabled,and finally Massa Waller had told him to spend his remaining

years doing whatever he felt able to do. With Kunta as hisassistant, he had tended the vegetable garden until he wastoo feeble to do even that, and from then on had spent most ofhis time weaving corn- shucks into hats and straw into chairbottoms and fans until advancing arthritis had crippled evenhis fingers. Kunta recalled another old man he had seen nowand then at a rich big house across the county. Though he hadlong since been allowed to retire, he demanded everymorning that some younger blacks carry him out to thegarden, where he would lie on his side plucking weeds withgnarled hands among the flowerbeds of his equally old andcrippled beloved lifetime missis. And these were the luckyones, Kunta knew. Many old folks began to get beaten whenthey were no longer able to perform their previous quota ofwork, and finally they got sold away for perhaps twenty or thirtydollars to some "po' white trash" farmerwith aspirations ofrising into the planter class--who worked them literally todeath. Kunta was snapped out of those thoughts as everyonerose from their seats all around him, said a final prayer, andheaded wearily home for a few hours of sleep that were leftbefore daybreak. Right after breakfast, the fiddler dressed theold man in the worn dark suit the old man had been givenmany years before by Massa Waller's daddy. His few otherclothes had been burned, since whoever might wear a deadperson's clothes would soon die too. Bell told Kunta. ThenCato tied the body on a wide board that he had shaped to apoint at both ends with an ax. A little while later, Massa Wallercame out of the big house carrying his big black Bible and fellin behind the slave-row people as they walked with a peculiar

pausing, hitching step behind the body being drawn on a mulecart. They were softly chanting a song Kunta had never heardbefore: "In de mawnin', when I gits dere, gwine tell my Jesushi'dy! Hi'dy!... In de mawnin', gwine to rise up, tell my Jesushi'dy! Hi'dy!..." They kept on singing all the way to the slavegraveyard, which Kunta had noticed everyone avoided in adeep fear of what they called "ghoses" and "haints," which hefelt must bear some resemblance to his Africa's evil spirits.His people also avoided the burial ground, but out ofconsideration for the dead whom they didn't wish to disturb,rather than out of fear. When Massa Waller stopped on oneside of the grave, his slaves on the other, old Aunt Sukeybegan to pray. Then a young field-hand woman named Pearlsang a sad song, "Hurry home, my weary soul... I beared fromheab'm today.... Hurry 'long, my weary soul... my sin's forgived,an' my soul's set free...." And then Massa Waller spoke withhis head bowed, "Josephus, you have' been a good andfaithful servant. May God rest and bless your soul. Amen,"Through his sorrow, Kunta was surprised to hear that the oldgardener had been called "Josephus." He wondered what thegardener's true name had been--the name of his Africanforefathers--and to what tribe they had belonged. Hewondered if the gardener himself had known. More likely hehad died as he had lived--without ever learning who he reallywas. Through misted eyes, Kunta and the others watched asCato and his helper lowered the old man into the earth he hadspent so many years making things grow in. When theshovelfuls of dirt began to thud down onto his face and chest,Kunta gulped and blinked back the tears as the women

around him began to weep and the men to clear their throatsand blow their noses. As they trudged silently back from thegraveyard, Kunta thought how the family and close friends ofone who had died in Juffure would wail and roll in ashes anddust within their huts while the other villagers danced outside,for most African people believed that there could be no sorrowwithout happiness, no death without life, in that cycle that hisown father had explained to him when his beloved GrandmaYaisa had died. He remembered that Omoro had told him,"Stop weeping now, Kunta," and explained that Grandma hadonly joined another of the three peoples in every village--thosewho had gone to be with Allah, those who were still living, andthose who were yet to be born. For a moment, Kunta thoughthe must try to explain that to Bell, but he knew she wouldn'tunderstand. His heart sank--until he decided a moment laterthat this would become another of the many things he wouldone day tell Kizzy about the homeland she would never see.

CHAPTER 72

The death of the gardener continued to weigh so heavily onKunta's mind that Bell finally said something about it oneevening after Kizzy went to bed. "Looka here, Kunta, I knowshow you felt 'bout dat gardener, but ain't it 'bout time you snapout of it an' jine de livin'?" He just glared at her. "Suit yo'se'f.But ain't gwine be much of a sec on birfday fo' Kizzy nex'Sunday wid you mopin' roun' like dis." "I be fine," said Kuntastiffly, hoping Bell couldn't tell that he'd forgotten all about it. Hehad five days to make Kizzy a present. By Thursday afternoon

he had carved a beautiful Mandinka doll out of pine wood,rubbed it with linseed oil and lampblack, then polished it until itshone like the ebony carvings of his homeland. And Bell, whohad long since finished making her a dress, was in thekitchen--dipping two tiny pink candles to put on the chocolatecake Aunt Sukey and Sister Mandy were going to help themeat on Sunday evening--when Massa John's driver Roosbyarrived in the buggy. Bell had to bite her tongue when themassa, beaming, called her in to announce that Missy Annehad persuaded her parents to let her spend an entireweekend with her uncle; she'd be arriving tomorrow evening."Make sure you have a guest room ready," said the massa."And why don't you bake a cake or something for Sunday? Myniece tells me your little girl is celebrating a birthday, andshe'd like to have a party--just the two of them--up in her room.Anne also asked if she could spend the night with her up herein the house, and I said that would be all right, so be sure toprepare a pallet for the floor at the foot of the bed. " When Bellbroke the news to Kunta--adding that the cake she was goingto make would have to be served in the big house instead oftheir cabin, and that Kizzy was going to be so busy partyingwith Missy Anne that they wouldn't be able to have a party oftheir own--Kunta was so angry that he couldn't speak or evenlook at her. Stomping outside, he went straight to the barn,where he'd hidden the doll under a pile of straw, and pulled itout. He had vowed to Allah that this kind of thing would neverhappen to his Kizzy--but what could he do? He felt such asickening sense of frustration that he could almost begin tounderstand why these blacks finally came to believe that

resisting the toubob was as useless as a flower trying to keepits head above the falling snow. But then, staring at the doll, hethought of the black mother he'd heard about who had bashedout her infant's brains against the auction block, screaming,"Ain't gon' do to her what you done to me!" And he raised thedoll over his head to dash it against the wall; then lowered it.No, he could never do that to her. But what about escape? Bellherself had mentioned it once. Would she really go? And ifshe would, could they ever make it--at their age, with his halffoot, with a child barely old enough to walk? He hadn'tseriously considered the idea for many years, but he did knowthe region by now as well as he did the plantation itself.Maybe... Dropping the doll, he got up and walked back to thecabin. But Bell started talking before he got the chance to."Kunta, I feels de same as you, but listen to me! I rut her disclan her growin' up a fiel'-han' young' un like dat li'l of' Noah.He ain't but two years older'n Kizzy, an' awready dey donestarted takin' him out dere to pullin' weeds an' totin' water.Don' care how else you feels, seem like you got to 'gree widd'at." As usual Kunta said nothing, but he had seen and doneenough during his quarter-century years as a slave to knowthat the life of a field hand was the life of a farm animal, and hewould rather die than be responsible for sentencing hisdaughter to such a fate. Then one evening a few weeks later,he arrived home to find Bell waiting at the door with the cup ofcold milk he always looked forward to after a long drive. Whenhe i sat down in his rocking chair to wait for supper, she cameup behind him and--without even being asked--rubbed hisback in just the spot where she knew it always hurt after a day

at the reins. When she set a plate of his favorite African stewin front of him, he knew she must be trying to soften him up forsomething, but he knew enough not to ask her what. All theway through supper she chattered even more than usual aboutthings that mattered even less than usual, and he wasbeginning to wonder if she'd ever get around to it when, aboutan hour after supper, as they were getting ready to go to bed,she stopped talking for a long moment, took a deep breath,and put her hand on his arm. He knew this was it. "Kunta, 1don' know how to tell you this, so I'll jes' spit it out. Massa donetol' me he promise Missy Anne to drop Kizzy off at MassaJohn's to spen' de day wid her when he pass by dere on hisroun's tomorra. " This was too much. It was outrageousenough to have to sit by and watch while Kizzy was turnedslowly into a well-mannered lap dog, but now that she'd beenhousebroken, they wanted him to deliver the animal to its newkeeper. Kunta shut his eyes, struggling to contain his rage,then leaped up from his chair--pulling his arm viciously awayfrom Bell--and bolted out the door. While she lay sleepless intheir bed that night, he sat sleepless in the stable beneath hisharnesses. Both of them were weeping. When they pulled upin front of Massa John's house the next morning. Missy Anneran out to meet them before Kunta even had the chance to liftKizzy to the ground. She didn't even say goodbye, he thoughtbitterly, hearing behind them the pealings of girlish laughter ashe swerved the horses back down the driveway toward themain road. It was late afternoon and he had been waitingseveral hours for the massa outside a big house about twentymiles down the road when a slave came out and told him that

Massa Waller might have to sit up all night with their sickmissy, and for Kunta to come back for him the next day.Morosely, Kunta obeyed, arriving to find that Missy Anne hadbegged her sickly mother to let Kizzy stay overnight. Deeplyrelieved when the reply came that their noise had given her aheadache, Kunta was soon rolling back homeward again withKizzy holding on and bouncing beside him on the narrowdriver's seat. As they rode along, it dawned on Kunta that thiswas the first time he had been absolutely alone with her sincethe night he had told her what her name was. He felt a strangeand mounting exhilaration as they drove on into the gatheringdusk. But he also felt rather foolish. As much thought as hehad given to his plans for and his responsibilities to thisfirstborn, he found himself uncertain how to act. Abruptly helifted Kizzy up onto his lap. Awkwardly he felt her arms, herlegs, her head, as she squirmed and stared at him curiously.He lifted her again, testing how much she weighed. Then, verygravely, he placed the reins within her warm, small palms--andsoon Kizzy's happy laughter seemed the most delightful soundhe had ever heard. "You pretty li'l gal," he said to her finally.She just looked at him. "You look jes' like my little brudderMadi." She just kept looking at him. "Fa!" he said, pointing tohimself. She looked at his finger. Tapping his chest, herepeated, "Fa." But she had turned her attention back to thehorses. Flicking the reins, she squealed, "Giddup!" imitatingsomething else she'd heard him say. She smiled proudly up athim, but he looked so hurt that it faded quickly, and they rodeon the rest of the way in silence. It was weeks later, while theywere riding home from a second visit with Missy Anne, that

Kizzy leaned over toward Kunta, stuck her chubby little fingeragainst his chest, and with a twinkle in her eye, said, "Fa!" Hewas thrilled. "Ee to mu Kiz7.y leh!" he said, taking her fingerand pointing it back at her. "Yo' name Kizzy." He paused."Kizzy!" She began to smile, recognizing her own name. Hepointed toward himself. "Kunta Kinte." But Kizzy seemedperplexed. She pointed at him: "Fa!" This time they bothsmiled wide. By midsummer Kunta was delighted with howfast Kizzy was learning the words he was teaching her--andhow much she seemed to be enjoying their rides together. Hebegan to think there might be hope for her yet. Then one dayshe happened to repeat a word or two of Mandinka when shewas alone with Bell, who later had sent Kizzy over to AuntSukey's for supper and was waiting for Kunta when he gothome that night. "Ain't you got no sense at all man?" sheshouted. "Don't you know you better pay me tent ion--git datchile an' all us in bad trouble wid dat mess! You better git in yohard head she ain't no African! " Kunta never had come soclose to striking Bell. Not only had she committed theunthinkable offense of raising her voice to her husband; buteven worse, she had disowned his blood and his seed. Couldnot one breathe a word of one's true heritage without fearingpunishment from some toubob? Yet something warned himnot to vent the wrath he felt, for any head-on collision with Bellmight somehow end his buggy trips with Kizzy. But then hethought she couldn't do that without telling the massa why, andshe would never dare to tell. Even so, he couldn't comprehendwhat had ever possessed him to marry any woman born intoubob land. While he was waiting for the massa to finish a.

house call at a nearby plantation the next day, another buggydriver told Kunta the latest story he'd heard about Toussaint, aformer slave who had organized a large army of black rebelsin Haiti and was leading them successfully against not only theFrench but also the Spanish and the English. Toussaint, thedriver said, had learned about war from reading books aboutfamous ancient fighters named "Alexander the Great" and"Julius Caesar," and that these books had been given to himby his former massa, whom he later helped escape from Haitito the "Newnited States." Over the past few months. Toussainthad become for Kunta a hero, ranking second in stature onlyto the legendary Mandinka warrior Sundiata, and Kunta couldhardly wait to get back home and pass this fascinating storyalong to the others. He forgot to tell them. Bell met him at thestable with the news that Kizzy had come down with a feverand broken out in bumps. The massa called it "mumps," andKunta was worried until Bell told him it was only normal inyoung'uns. When he learned later that Missy Anne had beenordered to stay away until Kizzy recovered--for at least twoweeks--he was even a little bit happy about it. But Kizzy hadbeen sick only a few days when Massa John's driver Roosbyshowed up with a fully dressed toubob doll from Missy Anne.Kizzy fell in love with it. She sat in bed Imagine the doll close,rocking it back and forth, excliimi'na with her eyes half shut."Jes' so pretty!" Kunta left without a word and stormed acrossthe yard to the barn. The doll was still in the loft where he'ddropped it and forgotten it months before. Wiping it off on hissleeve, he carried it back to the cabin and almost shoved it atKizzy. She laughed with pleasure when she saw it, and even

Bell admired it. But Kunta could see, after a few minutes, thatKizzy liked the toubob doll better, and for the first time in hislife, he was furious with his daughter. It didn't make him anyhappier to notice how eagerly the two girls made up for theweeks of being together they had missed. Allhoughsometimes Kunta was told to take Kizzy to play at MissyAnne's house, it was no secret that Missy Anne preferred tovisit at her uncle's, since her mother was quick to complain ofheadaches because of the noise they made, and would even'resort to fainting spells as a final weapon, according to theircook. Omega. But, she said, "of' missy" had her match in herquick-tongued daughter. Roosby told Bell one day that hismissis had yelled at the girls, "You're actin' just like niggers!"and Missy Anne had shot back, "Well, niggers has more funthan us, 'cause they ain't got nothin' to worry about!" But thetwo girls made all the noise they pleased at Massa Waller's.Kunta seldom drove the buggy either way along the flowereddrive without hearing the girls shrieking somewhere as theyromped in the house, the yards, the garden, and--despiteBell's best efforts to prevent it--even in the chicken coops, thehog pen, and the barn, as well as the unlocked slave-rowcabins. One afternoon, while Kunta was off with the massa,Kizzy took Missy Anne into her cabin to show her Kunta'sgourd of pebbles, which she had discovered and becomefascinated with while she was home with the mumps. Bell,who happened to walk in just as Kizzy was reaching into themouth of the gourd, took one look and yelled, "Git 'way fromyo' daddy's rocks! Dey's how he tell how of' he is!" The nextday Roosby arrived with a letter for the massa from his

brother, and five minutes later Massa Waller called Bell intothe drawing room, the sharpness of his tone frightening herbefore she left the kitchen. "Missy Anne told her parents aboutsomething she saw in your cabin. What is this African voodooabout rocks being put into a gourd every full moon? " hedemanded.

Her mind racing. Bell blurted,

"Rocks? Rocks, Massa?" "You know very well what I mean!"said the massa. Bell forced a nervous giggle. "Oh, I knowswhat you's talkin' 'bout. Nawsuh, Massa, ain't no voodoo .01'African nigger I got jes cain't count, datall, Massa. So everynew moon, he drop li'l rock in de gourd so all dem rocks sayhow of he is! " Massa Waller, still frowning, gestured for Bell toreturn to the kitchen. Ten minutes later she charged into thecabin, snatched Kizzy from Kunta's lap, and laid into her rearend with an open hand--almost screaming, "Don't you neverbring dat gal in here no mo', I'll wring yo' neck, you hear me!"After sending the weeping Kizzy fleeing to bed. Bell managedto calm herself enough to explain to Kunta. "I knows demgourd an' rocks ain't no harm," she said, "but it jes' go to showyou what I tol' you 'bout dem African things brings troubles! An'massa don't never for git nothing!" Kunta felt such an impotentfury that he couldn't eat supper. After driving the massa nearlyevery day for over twenty rains, Kunta was amazed andenraged that it could still be a matter of suspicion that hesimply recorded his age by dropping stones into a gourd. Itwas another two weeks before the tension subsided enough

for Missy Anne's visits to resume, but once they did it was as ifthe incident had never happened; Kunta was almost sorry.With the berry season in full bloom, the girls ranged up anddown the vine-covered fence rows finding the dark green wildstrawberry patches and coming home with full pails, theirhands--and mouths--tinted crimson. Other days they wouldreturn with such treasures as snail shells, a wren's nest, or acrusted old arrowhead, all of which they would exhibit gleefullyto Bell before hiding them somewhere with great secrecy,where after they might make mud pies. By the mid afternoonsafter trooping into the kitchen covered to the elbows with mud-pie batter and being ordered straight outside again to washup at the well, the joyfully exhausted pair would eat snacks thatBell had ready for them and then lie down together on a quiltpallet for a nap. If Missy Anne was staying overnight, after hersupper with the massa, she would keep him company until herbedtime, when he would send her out to tell Bell that it wastime for her story. And Bell would bring in an equally worn-outKizzy and tell them both about the further adventures of Br'erRabbit getting tricked by Br'er Fox, who finally got trickedhimself. Kunta resented this deepening intimacy between thetwo girls even more intensely than when he saw it coming inKizzy's crib. Part of him, he had to admit, was pleased thatKizzy was enjoying her girlhood so much, and he had come toagree with Bell that even being a toubob's pet was better thanhaving to spend her life in the fields. But he was sure thatevery now and then he could sense even in Bell a certainuneasiness when she was watching the girls romping andplaying so closely together. He would dare to think that at least

some of those times. Bell must have felt and feared the samethings he did. Some nights in their cabin, as he watched hercaressing Kizzy in her lap and humming one of her "Jesus"songs, he would have the feeling, as she looked down at thesleepy face, that she was afraid for her, that she wanted towarn her child about caring too much for any toubob, nomatter how mutual the affection seemed. Kizzy was too youngto understand such things, but Bell knew all too well thatwrenching anguish could result from trusting toubob; had theynot sold her away from her first two babies? There was noway even to guess at what might lie ahead for Kizzy, but alsofor him and Bell. But he knew one thing: Allah would wreakterrible vengeance on any toubob who ever harmed theirKizzy.

CHAPTER 73

Two Sundays every month, Kunta drove the massa to churchat the Waller Meetinghouse about five miles from theplantation. The fiddler had told him that not only the Wallers butalso several other important white families had built their ownmeeting houses around the county. Kunta had been surprisedto discover that the services also were attended by some ofthe neighboring lesser white families and even some of thearea's "po' crackers," whom the buggy had often passed asthey came and went on foot, carrying their shoes by the stringsover their shoulders. Neither the massa nor any of the other"quality folk," as Bell called them, ever stopped to offer "po'crackers" a ride; and Kunta was glad of it. There would always

be a long, droning sermon between a lot of equally listlesssinging and praying, and when it was finally over, everybodywould come trailing outside one by one and shake hands withthe preacher, and Kunta would notice with amusement howboth the "po' crackers" and those of the massa's class wouldsmile and tip their hats at one another, acting as if their bothbeing white made them both the same. But then when theywould spread their picnic lunches under the trees, it wasalways with the two classes on opposite sides of thechurchyard--as if they had just happened to sit apart. While hewas waiting and watching this solemn rite with the otherdrivers one Sunday, Roosby said under his breath, just loudenough for the others to hear, "Seem like white folks don' 'joydey eatin' no more'n dey worshipin'." Kunta thought to himselfthat in all the years he had known Bell, he had alwaysmanaged to claim some urgent chore whenever the timecame for one of her "Jesus" meetings in slave row, but all theway from the barn he had heard enough of the black ones'caterwauling and carrying on to convince him that one of thefew things about the toubob that he found worthy of admirationwas their preference for quieter worship. It was only a week orso later that Bell reminded Kunta about the "big campmeetin'" she planned to go to in late July. It had been theblacks' big summer event every year since he'd come to theplantation, and since every previous year he had found anexcuse not to go along, he was amazed that she would stillhave the nerve to ask him. He knew little about what went onat these huge gatherings, beyond that they had to do withBell's heathen religion, and he wanted no part of it. But Bell

once more insisted. "I knows how bad you always wants togo," she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. "Jes' thought I'dtell you far 'enough ahead so's you can work it into yo' plans."Kunta couldn't think of a smart answer, and he didn't want tostart an argument anyway, so he just said, "I think about it,"though he had no intention of going. By the day before themeeting, when he pulled up at the big-house front door after atrip to the county seat, the massa said, "I won't be needing thebuggy tomorrow, Toby. But I've given Bell and the other womenpermission to go to that camp meeting tomorrow, and I said itwould be all right for you to drive them over in the wagon."Churning with anger, positive that Bell had plotted this, Kuntatied up the horses behind the barn and, without taking the timeto unhitch them, headed straight for the cabin. Bell took onelook at him standing in the doorway and said, "Couldn't thinkup no other way to git you dere when Kizzy git christened.""Git what?" "Christened. Dat mean she jine de church." "Whatchurch? Dat '0 Lawd' religion o' your'n?" "Don' let's start datagain. Ain't nothin' to do wid me. Missy Anne done ax her folksto take Kizzy to dey meetin'- house on Sundays an' set in deback whilst dey prays up front. But she can't go to no whitefolks' church less'n she christened." "Den she ain't gwine nochurch!" "You still don' unnerstan', does you, African? It a priv'-lege to be axed to dey church. You say no, de nex' thing youan' me both out pickin' cotton." As they set out the nextmorning, Kunta sat rigidly staring straight ahead from his highdriver's seat, refusing to look back even at his laughing,excited daughter as she sat on her mother's lap, between theother women and their picnic baskets. For a while, they simply

chattered among themselves, then they began singing: "We-uh climbin' Ja- cob's ladder.... We-uh climbin' Jacob'sladder.... We- uh climbin' Jacob's ladder... soldiers of deCross...." Kunta was so disgusted that he began slapping thereins across the mules' rumps, making the buggy lurchforward and jostling his passengers--but he couldn't seem todo it hard enough or often enough to shut them up. He couldeven hear Kizzy's piping little voice among the others. Thetoubob didn't need to steal his child, bethought bitterly, if hisown wife was willing to give her away. Similarly crowdedwagons were coming out of other plantations' side roads, andwith every happy wave and greeting as they rode along, Kuntabecame more and more indignant. By the time they reachedthe campground--in a flowered, rolling meadow--he hadworked himself into such a state that he hardly noticed thedozen or more wagons that were already there and the othersthat were arriving from all directions. As each wagon pulled toa halt, the occupants would pile noisily out, hooting andhallooing, soon joining Bell and the others who were kissingand hugging each other in the milling crowd. Slowly it dawnedon Kunta that he had never seen so many black peopletogether in one place in toubob land, and he began to payattention. While the women assembled their baskets of foodin a grove of trees, the men began to drift toward a small knollin the middle of a meadow. Kunta tethered the mules to astake that he drove into the ground, and then sat down behindthe wagon--but in such a way that he could see everything thatwent on. After a while, all of the men had taken seats close toone another on the ground near the top of the knoll--all

excepting four who appeared to be the oldest among them;they remained standing And then, as if by some prearrangedsignal, the man who seemed to be the oldest of the four--hewas very black and stooped and thin, with a white beard--suddenly reared back his head and shouted loudly towardwhere the women were, "I say, chilluns of JESUS!" Unable tobelieve his eyes or ears, Kunta watched as the women swiftlyturned and shouted as one, "Yes, Lawd!" then came hurryingand jostling to sit behind the gathered men. Kunta wasastonished at how much it reminded him of the way thepeople of Juffure sat at the Council of Elders' meetings onceeach moon. The old man shouted again: "I say--is y'all chillunsof JESUS?" "Yes, Lawd!" Now, the three other old menstepped out in front of the oldest one, and one after another,they cried out: "Gon' come a time we be jes' gawd's slaves!""Yes, Lawd!" shouted all who sat on the ground. "You makeyou'se'f ready, Jesus STAY ready!" "Yes, Lawd!" "Know whatde Holy Father said to me jes' now?" He say, "Ain't NOBODYstrangers!" A massed shouting rose, all but drowning out whatthe oldest of the four had begun to say. In a strange way evenKunta felt some of the excitement. Finally the crowd quietedenough for him to hear what the graybeard was saying."Chilluns o' Gawd, dey is a PROMISE lan'! Dat's whereev'body b'lieve in Him gon' go! An' dem dat b'lieve, dat'swhere dey gon' LIVE--for all e-terni-ty!..." Soon the old manwas sweating profusely, his arms flailing the air, his bodyquivering with the intensity of his singsong exclamations, hisvoice rasping with emotion. "It tell us in de Bible dat de lamban' de lion gwine lay down TOGETHER!" The old man threw

his head backward, flinging his hands toward the sky. "Ain'tgon be no mass as an' slaves NO MO'! Jes' gon' be allgawd's CHILLUNS! " Then, suddenly, some woman leaped upand began shrieking, "0 Jesus! 0 Jesus! 0 Jesus! 0 Jesus!" Itset off others around her, and within minutes two dozen ormore women were screaming and jerking themselves about. Itflashed into Kunta's mind how the fiddler had once told himthat on some plantations where the mass as forbade slaves toworship, they concealed a large iron pot in the woods nearby,where those who felt the spirit move them would stick theirheads inside and shout, the pot muffling the noise sufficientlyfor it not to be heard by the massa or the overseer. It was inthe middle of this thought that Kunta saw, with profound shockand embarrassment, that Bell was among the women whowere staggering and screeching. Just then one of themshouted, "I'se gawd's chile!" toppled to the ground as if felledby a blow, and lay there quivering. Others joined her andbegan writhing and moaning on the grass. Another womanwho had been flinging herself violently about now went as rigidas a post, screaming out, "0 Lawd! Jes' you, Jesus!" Kuntacould tell that none of them had planned whatever they weredoing. It was just happening as they felt it--the way his ownpeople danced to the spirits back at home, acting out whatthey felt inside. As the shouting and the twitching began tosubside, it occurred to Kunta that this was the way the dancingin Juffure had ended--seemingly in exhaustion. And he couldsee that in some way, these people, too, seemed to be bothspent and at peace with themselves. Then, one after another,they began to get up from the ground and shout out to the

others: "My back pained me so bad till 1 talked to my Lawd.He say to me, "You stan' up straight," an' I ain't hurt since. ""Didn't meet my Lawd Jesus till He saved my soul, an' now Iputs my love tor Him up against anybody's!" There wereothers. Then, finally, one of the old men led a prayer, and whenit was over everybody shouted "A-MEN!" and began to singloudly and with tremendous spirit: "I got shoes, you got shoes,all Gawd's chilluns got shoes! Whcn-uh gits to Heab'm, gon'put on mah shoes, gon' walk all ovah Gawd's Heab'm!Heab'm! Ev'body tellin' 'bout Heab'm ain't gwine dere!Heab'm! Heab'm! I'm gon' walk all ovah Gawd's Heab'm!" Asthey sang the song, they had gotten up from the ground, oneby one, and begun to walk very slowly, following the gray-haired preacher, down from the knoll and across the meadow.By the time the song ended, they had reached the banks of apond on the other side, where the preacher turned to facethem, flanked by the other three elders, and held up his arms."An' now, brothers an' sisters, de time is come fo' yo' sinnerswhat ain't been cleansed to wash away yo' sins in de RiverJORDAN!" "O yeah!" shouted a woman on the bank. "It's timeto squench out de fires o' Hell in de holy waters o' de PromiseLAN'!" "Say it!" came another shout. "All dose ready to divedown fo' dey almighty soul an' rise up ag'in wid de Lawd,remain standin'. Res' o' you what done been baptize or ain'tready fo' Jesus yet, sed- down!" As Kunta watched inastonishment, all but twelve or fifteen of them sat down. Whilethe others lined up at the water's edge, the preacher and thestrongest of the four elders marched right into the pond,stopping and turning when they were immersed up to their

hips. Addressing himself to the teen-age girl who was first inline, the preacher spoke. "Is you ready, chile?" She nodded."Den come ahead!" Grasping both of her arms, the tworemaining elders led her into the pond, stumbling, to meet theothers in the middle. Placing his right hand on the girl'sforehead while the biggest elder grabbed her shoulders withboth hands from behind and the other two men tightened theirgrip on her arms, the preacher said, "0 Lawd, let dis chile bewash clean," and then he pushed her backward while the manbehind pulled her shoulders back and down until she wascompletely under water. As the bubbles rose to the surfaceand her limbs began to thrash the water, they turned their gazeheavenward and held on tight. Soon she started kicking wildlyand heaving her body violently; it was all they could do to holdher under. "ALMOST!" the preacher shouted, over thechurning commotion beneath his arms. "NOW!" They pulledher upward from the water, gasping for breath, spewing water,struggling frantically as they half carried her back to shore--and into the arms of her waiting mother. Then they turned tothe next in line--a boy in his early twenties who stood staring atthem, too terrified to move. They practically had to drag him in.Kunta watched with his mouth open wider as each person--next a middle-aged man, then another young girl aroundtwelve, then an elderly woman who could barely walk--wereled one by one into the pond and subjected to the sameincredible ordeal. Why did they do it? What sort of cruel"Gawd" demanded such suffering for those who wished tobelieve in him? How could half drowning someone wash awayhis evil? Kunta's mind teemed with questions--none of which

he could answer---until finally the last one had been pulledspluttering from the water. It must be over, he thought. But thepreacher, wiping his face with his sopping sleeve, stood in thepond and spoke again: "An' now, is dey any 'mongst y'allwishes to consecrate dey chilluns to JESUS dis holy day?"Four women stood up--the first of them Bell, holding Kizzy bythe hand. Kunta leaped up beside the wagon. Surely theywouldn't! But then he saw Bell leading the way to the bank ofthe pond, and began to walk--slowly, uncertainly at first, thenfaster and faster--toward the crowd at the water's edge. Whenthe preacher beckoned to Bell, she leaned down to pick upKizzy in her arms and strode vigorously into the water. For thefirst time in twenty-five years, since the day his foot had beenchopped, Kunta began to run--but when he reached the pond,his loot throbbing. Bell was standing in the middle at thepreacher's side. Gasping to catch his breath, Kunta openedhis mouth to call out--just as the preacher began to speak:"Dearly beloved, we's gathered here to welcome anotherlamb unto de fold! What de Chile's name, sister?" "Kizzy,reveren'." "Lawd..." he began, placing his left hand underKizzy's head and squeezing his eyes shut. "Naw!" Kuntashouted hoarsely. Bell's head jerked around; her eyes wereburning into his. The preacher stood looking from him to herand back again. Kizzy began to whimper. "Hush, chile," Bellwhispered. Kunta felt the hostile stares surrounding him.Everything hung poised. Bell broke the stillness. "It's awright,reveren'. Dat's jes' my African husban'. He don' unnerstan'. I'splain to him later. You go 'head." Kunta, too stunned tospeak, saw the preacher shrug, turn back to Kizzy, shut his

eyes, and start again. "Lawd, wid dis holy water, bless dischile.... What her name again, sister?" "Kizzy." "Bless dis chileKizzy and take her wid you safe into dat Promise Lan'!" Withthat the preacher dipped his right hand into the water, flicked afew drops into Kizzy's face, and shouted "AMEN!" Bell turned,carried Kizzy back to shore, trudged up out of the water, andstood dripping in front of Kunta. Feeling foolish and ashamed,he looked down at her muddy feet, then raised his eyes tomeet hers, which were wet--with tears? She put Kizzy in hisarms. "It awright. She jes' wet," he said, his rough handcaressing Kizzy's face. "All dat runnin', you must be hungry. Isure is. Le's go eat. I brung fried chicken an' devil eggs an' datsweet tater custard you can't never git enough of." "Soundgood," said Kunta. Bell took his arm and they walked slowlyback across the meadow to where their picnic basket sat onthe grass in the shade of a walnut tree.

CHAPTER 74

Bell told Kizzy one night in the cabin,

"You's gwine on seven years of'I Fiel-hand young'uns beawready out dere workin' ev'yday--like dat Noah--so you'sgwine start being' some use to me in de big house!" Knowingby now how her father felt about such things, Kizzy lookeduncertainly at Kunta. "You hear what yo' mammy say," he saidwithout conviction. Bell already had discussed it with him, andhe had to agree that it was prudent for Kizzy to start doingsome work that was visible to Massa Waller, rather than

continue solely as a playmate for Missy Anne. He privatelyfurther liked the idea of her making herself useful, since inJuffure at her age mothers started teaching their daughtersthe skills that would later enable their fathers to demand agood bride price from a prospective husband. But he knewBell didn't expect his enthusiasm about anything to bring Kizzyeven closer to the toubob--and take her even farther awayfrom him and the sense of dignity and heritage he was stilldetermined to instill in her. When Bell reported a few morningslater that Kizzy was already learning to polish silverware,scrub floors, wax woodwork, even to make up the massa'sbed, Kunta found it difficult to share her pride in suchaccomplishments. But when he saw his daughter emptyingthen washing the white-enameled slop jar in which the massarelieved himself at night, Kunta recoiled in anger, convincedthat his worst fears had been fulfilled. He bridled, too, at thecounsel he would hear Bell giving Kizzy about how to be apersonal maid. "Now, you listen to me good, gal! It ain't everynigger git chance to work fer quality white folks like massa.Right off, dat put; you 'bove de rest o' young 'uns. Now, de bigthing is to | learn what massa want without him never havin' totell you. You gwine start git ting up an' out early wid me, 'way |'fo' massa do. Dat's how I gits a head start on 'im---donealways b'lieve in dat. First thing, gwine show you how to whupde dus' out'n his coat an' pants when you hangs 'em out to airon de clothesline. Jes' be sho' you don't break or scratch noneo' de buttons"--and so on, sometimes for hours at a time. Nota single evening passed, it seemed to Kunta, without moreinstructions, down to the most ridiculous detail. "For blackin'

his shoes," she told Kizzy one night, "I shakes up in a jar li'lsimmon beer an' lampblack wid li'l sweet oil un' rock candy.Dat stan' overnight, den shake it up good again, it make demblack shoes of his'n shine like glass." Before he could standno more of it and retreated for relief to the fiddler's hut, Kuntaacquired such invaluable household hints as "if you set ateaspoon o' black pepper an' brown sugar mashed to a pastewid a li'l cow's cream in a saucer in a room, ain't no fliescomin' in dere nohow!" And that soiled wallpaper was bestcleaned by rubbing it with the crumbly insides of two-day-oldbiscuits. Kizzy seemed to be paying attention to her lessons,even if Kunta didn't, for Bell reported one day, weeks later, thatthe massa had mentioned to her that he was pleased with theway the andirons in the fireplace had been shining since Kizzystarted polishing them. But whenever Missy Anne came overfor a visit, of course, the massa didn't have to say that Kizzywas excused from work for the duration of her stay. Then, asalways, the two girls would go romping and skipping about,jumping rope, playing hide-and-seek and a few games theyinvented. "Playing nigger," bursting open a ripe watermelonand jamming their faces down into its crisp wetness oneafternoon, they ruined the fronts of their dresses, promptingBell to send Kizzy yelping with a backhand slap, and to snapeven at Missy Anne. "You knows you's raised bet tern dat! Tenyears of', gwine to school, an' 'fo' you knows it gwine be ahigh-class missy!" Though Kunta no longer bothered tocomplain about it, he remained a most difficult mate for Bell todeal with during Missy Anne's visits and for at least anotherday afterward. But whenever Kunta was told to drive Kizzy to

Massa John's house, it was all he could do to keep fromshowing his eagerness to be alone again with his girl child iathe buggy. By this time, Kizzy had come to understand thatwhatever was said during their buggy rides was a matterbetween the two of them, so he considered it safer now toteach her more about his homeland without fear that Bellwould find them out. Rolling along the dusty SpotsylvaniaCounty roads, he would tell her the Mandinka names of thingsthey passed along the road. Pointing at a tree, he'd say "yiro,"then downward at the road, "silo. " As they passed a grazingcow, he'd say, "ninsemuso," and went over a small bridge,"salo. " Once when they got caught in a sudden shower, Kuntashouted ". wnjio," waving out at the rain, and when the sunreappeared, pointing at it, he said "tilo." Kizzy would watch hismouth intently as he said each word, then imitate what shesaw with her own lips, repeating it over and over until she gotit right. Soon she began pointing to things herself and askinghim for their Mandinka names. One day they were hardlybeyond the shadow of the big house when Kizzy poked him inthe ribs, tapped her finger above an ear and whispered,"What you call my head?" "Kungo," Kunta whispered back.She tweaked her hair; he said "kuntinyo." She pinched hernose; he told her "nungo"; she squeezed her ear; he said"tulo." Giggling, Kizzy jerked up her foot and tapped her largetoe. "Sinkumha!" exclaimed Kunta. Seizing her exploringforefinger, wiggling it, he said "bulokonding." Touching hermouth, he said "da." Then Kizzy seized Kunta's forefinger andpointed it at him. "Fa!" she exclaimed. He felt overwhelmedwith his love for her. Pointing to a sluggish small river they

were passing a little later, Kunta said "Dat a bolongo." He toldher that in his homeland he had lived near a river called the"Kamby Bolongo." That evehing, when on the way back home.passing by it again, Kizzy pointed and shouted, "Kamby Go-longo!" Of course, she didn't understand when he tried toexplain that this was the Mattaponi River, not the GambiaRiver, but he was so delighted that she remembered the nameat all that it didn't seem to matter. The Kamby Go- longo, hesaid, was much bigger, swifter, and more powerful that thispuny specimen. He wanted to tell her how the life-giving riverwas revered by his people as a symbol of fertility, but hecouldn't find a way to say it, so he told her about the fish thatteemed in it--including the powerful, succulent kujalo, whichsometimes leaped right into a canoe--and about the vastliving carpet of birds that floated on it until some young boylike himself would jump growling from the brush on the banksso that he could watch them rise up and fill the sky like somefeathery snowstorm. Kunta said that reminded him of a timehis Grandmother Yaisa had told him about when Allah sentThe Gambia a plague of locusts so terrible that they darkenedthe sun and devoured everything green until the wind shiftedand carried them out to sea, where they finally fell and wereeaten by the fish. "Do I got a gran'ma?" asked Kizzy. "You gottwo--my mammy and yo' mammy's mammy." "How come deyain't wid us?" "Dey don' know where we is," said Kunta."Does you know where we is?" he asked her a moment later."We's in de buggy," Kizzy said. "I means where does we live.""At Massa Waller's." "An' where dat is?" "Dat way," she said,pointing down the road. Disinterested in their subject, she

said, "Tell me some more 'bout dem bugs an' things whereyou come from." "Well, dey's big red ants knows how to crossrivers on leafs, dat fights wars an' marches like a army, anbuilds hills dey lives in dat's taller clan a man." "Dey soundscary. You step-on 'em?" "Not less'n you has to. Every crittergot a right to be here same as you. Even de grass is live an'got a soul jes' like people does." "Won't walk on de grass nomo', den. I stay in de buggy." Kunta smiled. "Wasn't nobuggies where I come from. Walked wherever we was going'.One time I walked four days wid my pappy all de way fromJuffure to my uncles' village." "What Joofah-ray?" "Done tol'you don' know how many times, dat where I come from." "Ithought you was from Africa. Dat Gambia you talks about inAfrica?" "Gambia a country in Africa. Juffure a village inGambia." "Well, where dey at. Pappy?" " Crost de bi, "Howbig dat " So big it tak "Four what?" "Moons. Like "How comey " "Cause mooi " What you ca "A rain." Kizzy mused "Howyou ge " In a big boa "Bigger clan ( in?" "Big enough " Howcome i "I use to wisi " How come? " "Cause we a " How youge "Got sick fro each other." "Whyn't you; " De toubob h "Who'toubob: " White folks. " " How come y Was jes' out lookin' ferapie grab me an' taki " How of' you "Sebenteen." "Dey ask yo'Kunta looked too ifn dey could I is." "You got broi " Had three I| dey's all growed i: "We go see d(; " We cain't go | "We's gon'sol "Jes' Massa John's. We don't show up, dey have de dogsout at us by sundown." " Cause dey worried 'bout us? " "Cause we b'longs to dem, jes' like dese bosses pullin' us. ""Like I b'longs to you an' mammy?" "You'se our young' un Datdifferent." "Missy Anne say she want me fo' her own." "You

ain't no doll fo' her to play wid." "I plays wid her, too. She donetole me she my bes' frien'." "You can't be nobody's frien' an'slave both." "How come. Pappy?" " Cause frien's don't ownone not her "Don't mammy an' you b'long to one not her Ain'ty'all frien's?" "Ain't de same. We b'longs to each other 'causewe wants to, 'cause we loves each other." "Well, I loves MissyAnne, so I wants to b'long to her." "Couldn't never work out.""What you mean?" "You couldn't be happy when y'all grow up.""Would too. I bet you wouldn't be happy." "Yo sho' right 'boutdat!" "Aw, Pappy, I couldn't never leave you an Mammy." "An'chile, speck we couldn't never let you go, neither!"

CHAPTER 75

Late one afternoon, the driver for Massa Waller's parents atEnfield brought him their invitation to attend a dinner party inhonor of an important Richmond businessman who hadstopped for a night's lodging on his way to Fredericks- burg.About a dozen buggies were already parked outside theEnfield big house when Kunta arrived with the massa soonafter dark. Though he had been there many times in the eightyears since he and Bell were married, it had been only duringthe past few months that the fat black cook Hattie, who hadbeen so smitten with Kunta, decided to begin speaking withhim again--ever since he had brought Kizzy along with MissyAnne one day on a visit to her grandparents. Tonight, when hewent to the kitchen door to say hello--and for something to eat--she invited him in to visit while she, her helper, and fourserving women completed their preparations for dinner; Kunta

thought that he had never seen so much food bubbling in somany pots and pans. "How dat li'l puddin'-pie young' un o'your'n?" Hattie asked between sips and sniffs. "She fine,"said Kunta. "Bell got her learnin' how to cook now. S'prise meother night wid a apple betty she done made. " "Dat li'ldickens. Nex' thing you know, I be eatin' her cookies 'stead o'her eatin' mine. She musta put away halfa jar o' my gingersnaps las' time she here." With a last look at the mouth-watering three or four kinds of breads that were baking in theoven, Hattie turned to the oldest of the serving women, in theirstarched yellow smocks, and said, "We'se ready. Go tellmissis." As the woman disappeared through the swingingdoor, she told the other three, "I come after y'all wid a ladle ifnyo' slops one drop o' soup on my bes' linen when you settin'down de bowls. Git to work now. Pearl," she said to herteenage helper. "Git dem turnip greens, de sweet cawn,squash, an' okra in de good china tureens whilst I wrestles dishere saddle o' mutton onto de carvin' boA few minutes later,one of the serving women came back in, whispered intently toHattie at some length, and then hurried back out again. Hattieturned to Kunta. "You 'members few months back when onedem tradin' boats got raided somewheres on de big water bydat France?" Kunta nodded. "Fiddler say he heard datPres'dent Adams so mad he sent de whole Newnited StatesNavy to whup 'em." "Well, dey sho' did. Louvina jes' now tol'me dat man in dere from Richmon' say dey done took awayeighty boats b'longin' to dat France. She say de white folks indere act like dey nigh 'bout ready to start singin' an' dancin'bout teachin' dat France a lesson. " As she spoke, Kunta had

begun digging into the heaping plateful of food she had setbefore him, while he marveled at the very sight of the roastbeef, baked ham, turkey, chicken, and duck she was nowbusily arranging on big platters waiting to be served. He hadjust swallowed a mouthful of buttered sweet potato when thefour serving women came bustling back into the kitchen--allloaded down with empty bowls and spoons. "De soup's et!"Hattie announced to Kunta. A moment later the servingwomen were trooping out again with heaped trays, and Hattiemopped her face with her apron and said, "Got 'bout fo'tyminutes befo' dey ready fo' dessert. You was gon' say sump'nbefo'?" "Jes' gon' say eighty boats don' make me nodifference," said Kunta, "long's white folks messin' wid onenot her 'stead o' us. Seem like dey ain't happy less'n dey'smessin' wid somebody." " Tend who dey messin' wid, way Isees it," said Hattie. "Las' year was a mulatto led a re-volt'against dat Toussaint, an' he mighta won ifn de Pres'denthadn't of sent his boats down dere to he'p Toussaint." "HearedMassa Waller say Toussaint ain't got sense 'enough to be nogen'l. let alone run no country on his own," said Kunta. "He sayjes' watch, all dem slaves dat done got free in dat Haiti gwinewind up whole lot wuss off clan dey was under dey of' mass as"Co'se, dat's what white folks hopin'. But I specks dey'sawready better off workin' de plantations deyselves." One ofthe serving women, who had returned to the kitchen and waslistening to the conversation, spoke up: "Dat what dey's talkin''bout in dere right now--free niggers. Say it's way too many,thirteen thou san jes' here in Virginia. De jedge say he all fo'freein' niggers dat do sump'n outstandin', like dem what fit in

dat Revolution long side dey mass as or dem what tol' whitefolks 'bout any nigger uprisin' plan, or dat nigger dat come upwid dat herb medicine dat even white folks claim cure near'bout everythin'. De jedge say he feel mass as got de right inde wills to free of' faithful niggers. But him an' ev'body in deresay dey's dead set 'against dem Quakers and some otherwhite folks settin' dey niggers free fo' nothin'. " Th servingwoman headed for the door, adding, "Jedge sa mark hiswords, some new laws gwine be made to put crimp in datright soon."

Hattie asked Kunta,

"What yo' think o' dat Mass; Alexander Hamilton up Nawthsayin' all free nigger; i; oughta be sent to Africa 'cause niggersan' white folks toe I; different an ain't gwine never git 'long?""He right, dat's what I thinks," said Kunta. "But white j folkstalks dat an' keeps bringin' mo' from Africa!" "You know whywell's I do," said Hattie. "Puts 'ere down in Georgia an' deCarolinas to keep up wid de cottor s, crop every since datcotton gin come in few years back, | Same reason plentymass as 'roun' here sellin' dey nigger' " i off down South formuch as two, three times what de I paid fo' dem. " "Fiddlersay de big mass as down South got mean po; crackeroberseers drivin' niggers like mules clearin' lan' for new cottonfiel said Kunta. "Yeah, it's how come de papers lately so full o'notices | 'bout runaways," said Hattie. i Just then the servingwomen began returning to the | kitchen with dirty plates andplatters. Hattie beamed proud ly. "Look like dey's done et all

dey can hoi'. "Bout now; if, massa pourin' de champagnewhilst de table git cleared fo' i, dessert," she told Kunta. "Seehow you like dese plum i puddin' tarts." She set one on asaucer in front of him, II " " Sides dat dey's git ting brandiedpeaches in dere, but i recollecks you don't touch no liquor. "Enjoying the succulent tart, Kunta found himself recalling arunaway slave advertisement that Bell had read to himrecently from the Gazette. "Tall mulatto wench," i1 I; said, "verylarge breasts of which the right one has a deep - scar. A slyliar and thief, who may be showing a large forged pass, sinceprevious owner let her learn to write; so-the, or who may beclaiming herself a free nigger." i Hattie sat down heavily,fingered a brandied peach from I a jar and popped it into hermouth. Glancing across the; kitchen at two high tubs filled withglasses, dishes, cutlery, and utensils yet to be washed and putaway, she let out a. " loud sigh and said wearily, "Know onething, sho' be glad i: to see my bed dis night, 'cause Lawd, Ijes' plum we' out."

CHAPTER 76

For many years now, Kunta had gotten up every morningbefore dawn, earlier than anyone else on slave row--so earlythat some of the others were convinced that "dat African"could see in the dark like a cat. Whatever they wanted to thinkwas fine with him as long as he was left alone to slip away tothe barn, where he would face the first faint streaking of theday prostrated between two large bundles of hay, offering uphis daily suba prayer to Allah. Afterward, by the time he had

pitched some hay into the horses' feed trough, he knew thatBell and Kizzy would be washed, dressed, and ready to getthings under way in the big house, and the boss field handCato would be up and out with Ada's son Noah, who wouldsoon be" ringing the bell to wake the other slaves. Almostevery morning, Noah would nod and say "Morning " with suchsolemn reserve that he reminded Kunta of the Jaloff people inAfrica, of whom it was said that if one greeted you in themorning, he had uttered his last good word for the day. Butalthough they had said little to each other, he liked Noah,perhaps because he reminded Kunta of himself at about thesame age--the serious manner, the way he went about hiswork and minded his own business, the way he spoke little butwatched everything. He had often noticed Noah doing a thingthat he also did--standing somewhere with his eyes quietlyfollowing the rom pings of Kizzy and Missy Anne around theplantation. Once when Kunta had been watching from the barndoor as they rolled a hoop across the backyard, giggling andscreaming, he had been about to go back inside when he sawNoah standing over by Cato's cabin, also watching. Theireyes met, and they looked at each other for a long momentbefore both turned away. Kunta wondered what had Noahbeen thinking--and had the feeling that, likewise, Noah waswondering what he was thinking. Kunta knew somehow thatthey were both thinking the same things. At ten, Noah was twoyears older than Kizzy, but that difference wasn't great enoughto explain why the two hadn't even become friends, let aloneplaymates, since they were the only slave children on theplantation. Kunta had noticed that whenever they passed near

each other, each of them always acted as if they had not evenseen the other, and he couldn't figure out why--unless it wasbecause even at their age they had begun to sense thecustom that house slaves and field slaves didn't mix with oneanother. Whatever the reason, Noah spent his days out withoth- -I ers in the fields while Kizzy swept, dusted, polished the ibrass, and tidied up the massa's bedroom every day--for | Bellto inspect later with a hickory switch in her hand. On iiSaturdays, when Missy Anne usually came to call, Kizzy |would somehow miraculously manage to finish her chores i inhalf the time it took her every other day, and the two 1: of themwould spend the rest of the day playing--except- I ing atmidday if the massa happened to be home for lunch, Then heand Missy Anne would eat in the dining room with Kizzystanding behind them gently fanning a leafy branch to keepaway flies, as Bell shuttled in and out serving the i food andkeeping a sharp eye on both girls, having warned thembeforehand, "Y'all lemme catch you even-thinkin' 'bout gigglin'in dere wid massa, I'll tan both yo' hides!" Kunta by now waspretty much resigned to sharing his Kizzy with Massa Waller,Bell, and Missy Anne. He tried not to think about what theymust have her doing up there in the big house, and he spentas much time as possible in the barn when Missy Anne wasaround. But it was all he could do to wait until each Sundayafternoon, when church would be over and Missy Anne wouldgo back home with her parents. Later on these afternoons,usually Massa Waller would be either resting or passing thetime with company in the parlor. Bell would be off with AuntSukey and g Sister Mandy at their weekly "Jesus meetin's"--

and Kunta K would be free to spend another couple oftreasured hours? alone with his daughter. When the weatherwas good, they'd go walking--usually '-. along the vine-coveredfence row where he had gone almost; nine years before tothink of the name "Kizzy" for his new girl child Out beyondwhere anyone would be likely to see them Kunta would claspKizzy's soft little hand in his own as, feeling no need to speak,they would stroll down to a little stream, and sitting closetogether beneath a shade tree they would eat whatever Kizzyhad brought along from the kitchen--usually cold butteredbiscuits filled with his favorite blackberry preserves. Then theywould begin talking. Mostly he'd talk and she'd interrupt himconstantly with questions, most of which would begin, "Howcome..." But one day Kunta didn't get to open his mouthbefore she piped up eagerly, "You wanna hear what MissyAnne learned me yestiddy?" He didn't care to hear of anythinghaving to do with that giggling white creature, but not wishingto hurt his Kizzy's feelings, he said, "I'm listenin'." "Peter,Peter, punkin eater," she recited, "had a wife an' couldn'keeper, put 'er in a punkin shell, dere he kep' 'er very well... "Dat it? " he asked. She nodded. "You like it?" He thought itwas just what he would have expected from Missy Anne:completely asinine. "You says it real good," he hedged. "Betyou can't say it good as me," she said with a twinkle. / "Ain'ttryin' to!" "Come on. Pappy, say it to me jes' once." "Git 'wayfrom me wid dat mess!" He sounded more exasperated thanhe really was. But she kept insisting and finally, feeling a bitfoolish that his Kizzy was able to twine him around her fingerso easily, he made a stumbling effort to repeat the ridiculous

lines--just to make her leave him alone, he told himself. Beforeshe could urge him to try the rhyme again, the thought flashedto Kunta of reciting something else to her--perhaps a fewverses from the Koran, so that she might know how beautifulthey could sound--then he realized such verses would makeno more sense to her than "Peter, Peter" had to him. So hedecided to tell her a story. She had already heard about thecrocodile and the little boy. so he tried the one about the lazyturtle who talked the stun id leonard into giving him a ride bypleading that he was too sick to walk. "Where you hears alldem stones you tells?" Kizzy asked when he was through."Heared 'em when I was yo' age--from a wise of' gran'-mammy name Nyo Boto." Suddenly Kunta laughed withdelight, remembering: "She was bald-headed as a egg!Didn't have no teeth, neither, but dat sharp tongue o' hern sho'made up fer it! Loved us young'uns like her own, though.""She ain't had none of 'er own?" "Had two when she was realyoung, long time 'fo' she come to Juffure. But they got tookaway in a fight 'tween her village an' not her tribe. Reckon shenever got over it. " Kunta fell silent, stunned with a thought thathad never occurred to him before: The same thing hadhappened to Bell when she was young. He wished he couldtell Kizzy about her two half sisters, but he knew it would onlyupset; her--not to mention Bell, who hadn't spoken of it since Ishe told him of her lost daughters on the night of Kizzy's birth.But hadn't he--hadn't all of those who had been; chainedbeside him on the slave ship been torn away from., their ownmothers? Hadn't all the countless other thousands who hadcome before--and since? "Dey brung us here naked!" he

heard himself blurting. Kizzy jerked up her head, staring; buthe couldn't stop. "Even took our names away. Dem like yougits horned here don't even know who dey is! But you jes'much Kinte as I is! Don't never fo'git datUs'ns fo'fathers wastraders, I travelers, holy men--all de way back hunnuds o' rainsinto dat lan' call 01' Mali! You unnerstan' what I'm talkin' 'bout,Chile?" "Yes, Pappy," she said obediently, but he knew shedidn't. He had an idea. Picking up a stick, smoothing a | placein the dirt between them, he scratched some char- I acters inArabic. "Dat my name--Kun-ta Kin-te," he said, tracing the |characters slowly with his finger. She stared, fascinated."Pappy, now do my name." He did. She laughed. "Dat sayKizzy?" He nodded. "Would you learn me to write like youdoes?" Kizzy asked. "Wouldn't be fittin'," said Kunta sternly."Why not?" She sounded hurt. "In Africa, only boys learns howto read an' write. Girls, ain't got no use fer it--ov here, neither.""How come mammy can read an' write, den?"

Sternly, he said,

"Don't you be talkin' dat! You hear me? Ain't nobody'sbusiness! White folks don' like none us doin." no readin' orwritin'! " "How come?" " Cause dey figgers less we knows,less trouble we makes. " "I wouldn't make no trouble," shesaid, pouting. "If'n we don' hurry up an' git back to de cabin,yo' mammy gon' make trouble fo' us both." Kunta got up andstarted walking, then stopped and turned, realizing that Kizzywas not behind him. She was still by the bank of the stream,gazing at a pebble she had seen. "Come on now, it's time to

go." She looked up at him, and he walked over and reachedout his hand. "Tell you what," he said. "You pick up dat pebblean' bring it 'long an' hide it somewheres safe, an' if'n youkeeps yo' mouth shet 'bout it, nex' new moon mornin' I let youdrop it in my gourd." "Oh, Pappy!" She was beaming.

CHAPTER 77

It was almost time for Kizzy to drop another pebble intoKunta's gourd--about a year later, in the summer of 1800--when the massa told Bell he was going to Fredericksburg forabout a week on business, and it was arranged that hisbrother would be coming over "to look after things" while hewas away. When Kunta heard the news, he was even moreupset than the rest of slave row, for he hated leaving Bell andKizzy exposed to his former owner even more than he dislikedhaving to be away from them for so long. Of course, he saidnothing about these concerns, but on the morning ofdeparture, as he left the cabin to hitch up the horses, he wastaken aback that it seemed almost as if Bell had read hismind. She said, "Massa John sho' ain't like his brother, but 1knows how to deal wid his kin'. An' it ain't but a week. So don'tyou worry none. We be fine." "I ain't worryin'," said Kunta,hoping she couldn't tell he was lying. Kneeling to kiss Kizzy, hewhispered in her ear, "Don't for git dat new moon pebble,now," and she winked conspiratorially as Bell pretended not tohave heard, although she had known what they were doing foralmost nine months now. For the next two days of the massa'sabsence, everything went on pretty much as usual, although

Bell was mildly annoyed at nearly everything Massa John saidor did. She particularly disliked how he sat up late in the studyat night, drinking his brother's best whiskey from the bottle,smoking his own big, black, smelly cigars and flicking theashes on the carpet. Still, Massa John didn't interfere toomuch with Bell's normal routine, and he stayed mostly tohimself. But the midmorning of the third day. Bell was outsweeping off the front porch when a white man on a latheredhorse came galloping up and leaped off, demanding to seethe massa. Ten minutes later, the man left as hurriedly as hehad come. Massa John barked down the hallway for Bell tocome into the study. He looked deeply shaken, and it flashedin Bell's mind that something terrible had happened to Kuntaand the massa. She was sure of it when he brusquely orderedher to assemble all the slaves in the backyard. They allgathered, standing in a line, tense with fear, as he flung openthe back screen door and stalked out toward them; he had arevolver conspicuous in his belt. Coldly scanning their faces,he said. "I just got word of some Richmond niggers' plot tokidnap the governor, massacre the Richmond white people,and burn the city." The slaves gawked at one another inastonishment as he went on. "Thanks to God--an' a few smartniggers who found out and told their mass as just in time--theplot's been crushed, and most of the niggers that started italready caupht. Armed patrols are on the roads lookin' for therest, an' I'm gonna make sure none of 'em decides to stop offhere for the night. "Case any o' you got uprising notions, I'mgonna be patrollm' day and night. None of you're to set foot offthis property! I don't want no gatherin' of any kind; an' nobody

outside their own cabin after dark! " Patting his revolver, hesaid, " I'm not as patient an' soft with niggers as my brother!Any of you even looks like you're thinkin' about steppin' outaline, his doctorin' won't patch up a bullet 'tween your eyes.Now git! " Massa John was as good as his word. For the nexttwo days, he enraged Bell by insisting upon watching Kizzytaste his food before he'd eat it. He roamed the fields onhorseback during the day and sat on the porch at night with ashotgun across his lap--his vigilance so absolute that theslave-row people dared not try even discussing the uprising,let alone plan one of their own. After receiving and reading thenext issue of the Gazette, Massa John burned it in thefireplace; and when a neighboring massa visited oneafternoon, he ordered Bell to leave the house and theyhuddled talking in the study with the windows shut. So it wasimpossible for anyone even to find out more about the plot, orespecially about its aftermath, which was what had Bell andthe others worried sick--not about Kun- ta, since he'd be safewith the massa, but about the fiddler, who had left on the daybefore they had to play at a big society ball in Richmond. Theslave-row people could only imagine what might behappening to black strangers in Richmond at the hands ofenraged, panic-stricken whites. The fiddler still hadn't returnedwhen Kunta and the massa did--three days early--their trip cutshort by the uprising. Upon Massa John's departure later thatday, the restrictions he'd imposed were relaxed somewhat,although not completely, and the massa was very cold towardeveryone. It wasn't until Kunta and Bell were alone in theircabin that he could tell her of what he'd overheard in

Fredericksburg: that the black revolters already captured hadbeen tortured into helping the authorities round up othersinvolved, and some had confessed that the revolt had beenplanned by a free blacksmith named Gabriel Prosser, whohad recruited around two hundred hand-picked black men--butlers, gardeners, janitors, waiters, ironworkers, ropemakers, coal miners, boatmen, even preachers--and trainedthem for more than a year. Prosser was still at large, and themilitia was combing the countryside for suspects, said Kunta;poor-white pate rollers were terrorizing the roads; and therewere rumors about some mass as beating slaves, some todeath, for little or no provocation, "Look like our only hope iswe's all dey got," said Bell. "If'n dey kills us off, dey won't haveno slaves no mo'." "Fiddler back?" asked Kunta, ashamedthat he'd been so engrossed in telling what had happened thathe hadn'l thought of his friend until now. Bell shook her head."We all been mighty worried. Bul dat fiddler a crafty nigger. Heget home awright." Kunta didn't fully agree. "He ain't homeyet." When the fiddler didn't return the next day, the massawrote a message notifying the sheriff, and told Kunta to deliverit to the county seat. Kunta had done so--seeing the sheriffread the message and silently shake his head Then returninghomeward, Kunta had driven slowly for three or four miles,staring gloomily at the road ahead, wondering if he'd ever seethe fiddler again, feeling badi that he had never actuallyexpressed that he considered hire a good friend--despite hisdrinking, his cussing, and ottiei shortcomings--when he hearda poor imitation of a whitt "cracker" drawl, "Hey, nigger!"Kunta thought he must be hearing things. "Where d< hell you

think you going'?" the voice came again, and reining thehorses, Kunta looked around and along both sides of theroad, but saw nobody. Then, suddenly, "You ain't gol no travelpass, boy, you in a heap o' trouble"--and there, climbing froma ditch, ragged and torn, cut and bruised covered with mudwhile carrying his battered case and grinning from ear to ear,was the fiddler. Kunta let out a shout, jumping down from hisseat and within seconds he and the fiddler were hugging andwhirling each other around, laughing. "You de spittin' image ofa African I knows," exclaimed the fiddler, "but couldn't be him--he wouldn't never Ie' nobody know he glad to see 'em." "Don'tknow why I is," said Kunta, embarrassed at himself. "Finewelcome fo' a frien' what crawled on his han's an knees all deway back from Richmon' jes' to see yo' ugly face again."Kunta's seriousness conveyed the degree of his concern"Was it bad. Fiddler? " "Bad ain't even close to it. Thoughtsho' I'd be playin a duet wid angels fo' I got out'n dere! " AsKunta took the muddy fiddle case and they both clamberedinto the wagon, the fiddler continued talking, nonstop."Richmon' white folks jes' 'bout crazy scared. Militiamens ever'where stop- pin' niggers, an' dem widout a travel pass nextstop in jail wid a headache. An' dem de lucky ones. Packs o'po' crackers roamin' de streets like wil' dogs, jumpin' onniggers, beatin' some so bad can't hardly tell who dey was."De ball I'se playin' at break up halfway through when dey gitsfirs' word 'bout de uprisin', missies screamin' an runnin' roun'in circles, mass as pullin' guns on us niggers up on de ban'stan "Midst all de ruckus, I slips into de kitchen an' hid in agarbage can till eve' body gone. Den I climbs out a window

and took to de back streets, stayin' 'way from lights. I'd got tode edge o' town when all of a sudden I hears dis shoutin'behin' me, den a whole lotta feets runnin' same way I is.Sump'n tell me dey ain't black, but I ain't waitin' to fin' out. I cuts'roun' de nex' corner flyin' low, but I hears 'em gainin' on me,an' I'se 'bout to say my prayers when I sees a real low porchdat I rolls right under. "It's real tight under dere, an' I'se inchin'further back jes' when dem crackers goes runnin' by widtorches sboutin' " Git dat nigger! " I bumps 'against sump'n bigan' sof, an' a hand clap over my mouf, an' a nigger voice say,"Nex' time, knock!" Turns out it's a warehouse night watchmanseen a mob tear a frien' o' his apart, an' he ain't got no tent iono' comin' out from under dat porch 'til nex' spring, ifn it take datlong to blow over. "Well, after a while I wishes 'im luck, an'heads out again an' makes it to de woods. Dat was five daysago. Would a made it here in fo', but so many pate rollers onde roads, I had to keep to de woods, eatin' berries, sleepin' inde thickets wid de rabbits. Did all right 'til yestiddy a few mileseast o' here, bunch o' real mean crackers cotched me in deopen. "Dey's jes' spoilin' to whup deyselves a nigger, maybeeven string 'im up--dey had a rope right dere wid 'em! Dey'sshovin' me back an' fo'th, axin' whose nigger I is an' where Ithink I'se going' but not payin' no tent ion to what I tells 'em--'til Isays I'se a fiddler. Dey hoi' on, dey thinks I'se lyin', an' hollers,"Well, le's hear you play, den!" "African, le'me tell you sump'n. Iopen up dat fiddle case an' you ain't never heard no concertlike I give right out dere in de middle o' de road. Played"Turkey in de Straw' you know po' crackers loves dat an' 'fo'I'm warmed up good, I had dem all a-hootin' an' clappin' an'

tappin' dey feets, an' I ain't quit tildey's had dey fill an' tell meto go 'head an' don't dillydally git ting my tail home. An' I ain'tneither! Done hit de ditch whenever I seen a boss or buggy, orwagon comin', until dis one was youl An' here I is!" As theyrolled into the narrow road leading to the big house, soon theyheard shouting and then saw the people of slave row runningto meet the wagon. "Might think a body was missed 'roundhere" although the fiddler was grinning, Kunta could sensehow moved the man was, as, grinning himself, he said, "Looklike you gon' have to tell de whole story all over again." "Youever knowed dat to stop me?" asked the fiddler. "Leas'waysI'se here to tell ill"

CHAPTER 78

In the months that followed, with the capture, trial, andexecution of one conspirator after another, and finally ofGabriel Prosser himself, news of the Richmond uprising andof the tensions it generated gradually subsided, and oncemore politics became the chief discussion topic among themassa and his friends, and therefore also within slave row. Asbest Kunta, Bell, and the fiddler could piece together whatthey overheard in various ways about the voting for the nextPresident, a Massa Aaron Burr had run a tie with the famousMassa Thomas Jefferson who finally had gotten the job,apparently since he was supported by the powerful MassaAlexander Hamilton; and Massa Burr, an archenemy of MassaHamilton, had been made Vice President. No one seemed toknow much about Massa Burr, but Kunta learned from a buggy

driver who had been born in Virginia not far from MassaJefferson's Monticello plantation that his slaves declared therecouldn't be a better massa. "Dat driver tol' me MassaJefferson ain't never lowed his oberseers to whup nobody,"Kunta shared with the slave-row people. "An' dey all eatsgood, an' he let de womens spin an' sew 'em all good clothes,an' he b'lieve in lettin' 'em learn different trades." After MassaJefferson returned home from one long trip, Kunta had heard,his slaves had met him two miles from the plantation,unhitched the horses, and gleefully pulled the carriage thatlong distance to the Monticello big house, where they carriedhim on their shoulders to the doorstep. The fiddler snorted."Pref near eve' body know plenty dem niggers MassaJefferson's own chilluns by high-yaller woman he own, name o'Sally Hemings." He was about to say more when Bellcontributed the most interesting thing she knew. " " Cordin' toa kitchen maid he use to have dere," she said, " ain't nothin'Massa Jefferson rut her eat clan a rabbit soaked all night inoil, thyme, rosemary, an' garlic, den next day simmered downin wine till de meat fallin' off de bones. " "You don' say!"exclaimed the fiddler sarcastically. "See how soon you gits nother piece dat rhubarb pie you keeps axin' me to make!"snapped Bell. "See how soon I axes you!" he shot back.Refusing to get caught in the middle, as he had so often beenin the past--in trying to make peace when his wife and thefiddler started in on each other, then turned on him for buttingin--Kunta acted as if he hadn't heard, and simply continuedwhere he'd left off before they interrupted. "I beared MassaJefferson say slavery jes' bad for white folks as for us'ns, an'

he 'gree wid Massa Hamilton it's }es' too much nacheldiff'rence fo' white an' black folks ever to learn to live wid onenot her peaceful. Dey say Massa Jefferson want to see us setfree, but not stickin' roun' dis country takin' po' white folks'jobs--he favor shippin' us back to Africa, gradual, widout bigfuss an' mess." "Massa Jefferson better talk to dem slavetraders," said the fiddler, " 'cause look like dey got diff'rentideas which way de ships oughta go." "Seem like lately whenmassa go to other plantations, I hears "bout lots of people gitting sol'," said Kunta. "Whole families dat's been all dey livesrouri' here is git ting sol' off down South by dey mass as Evenpassed one dem slave traders yestiddy on de road. He wavean' grin an' tip 'is hat, but massa ack like he ain't even seed'im. " "Humph! Dem slave traders getting' thick as flies in detowns," said the fiddler. "Las' time I went to Fredericks- burg,dey was buzzin' after sump'n of' an' dried-up as me, 'til I flashmy pass. I seed a poof' gray beard nigger git sol' off fo' sixhunnud dollars. Young healthy buck use to fetch dat. But datof'nigger sho' didn't go quiet! Dey's jerkin' 'im otTn de auctionblock, an' he bawlin' out, " Y'all white folks done made Gawd'searth a livin' HELL fo' my peoples! But jes' sho' asJEDGMENT MAWNIN' gwine come, y'all's hell gwine bounceBACK. on y'all dat brung it! Ain't no BEGGIN' gwine stop itfrom "STROYIN' you! No MEDICINES y'all make... noRUNNIN' y'all do... none y'all's GUNS... no PRAYIN', noNOTHIN' he'p y'all den!" By dat time dey'd drug 'im off .01'nigger sound' like a preacher or sump'n, de way he carry on. "Kunta saw Bell's sudden agitation. "Dat of' man"--she asked,"he real black an' skinny, kin' o' stooped over an' got a white

beard an' had a big scar down his neck?" The fiddler lookedstartled. "Yeah! Sho' was! Sho' did. All dem things--you knowwho he was?" Bell looked at Kunta as if she were ready toweep. "Dat de preacher what christened Kizzy," she saidsomberly. Kunta was visiting in the fiddler's cabin late the nextday when Cato knocked at the open door. "What you doin' outdere? Come on in!" the fiddler shouted. Cato did. Both Kuntaand the fiddler were very glad that he had come. Only recentlythey had expressed mutual wishing that the quiet, solid headfield hand Cato was closer to them, as the old gardener hadbeen. Cato seemed ill at ease. "Jes' want to say I b'lieves itbe good if y'all maybe don' tell de scaries' things y'all hears'bout so many folks git tin sol' off down South"--Catohesitated. "Reason why I'm tellin' y'all de truth, out in de fieldsde folks is git ting so scairt dey gwine git sol', dey jes' can'hardly keep dey minds on no workin'." Again he pausedbriefly. "Leas'ways nobody 'ceptin' me an' dat boy Noah. Ifiggers if I gits sol', well, I'se jes' sol', ain't much I can do 'boutit. An' dat Noah--don' seem like he scairt o' nothin'. " Afterseveral minutes of talk among the three of them--during whichKunta sensed Cato's warm response to their warm welcomingof his visit--they agreed that it would probably be best if onlythey, not even Bell, shared the news that was the mostfrightening, that could only alarm the others needlessly. Butone night in the cabin a week or so later. Bell looked upabruptly from her knitting and said, "Seem like de cat gotsome tongues roun' here--either dator white folks done quitsellin' niggers, an' I knows I got mo' sense clan dat!" Gruntingin embarrassment, Kunta was amazed that she--and probably

all the other people on slave row--had guessed intuitively thathe and the fiddler weren't telling them all they knew anymore.So he began reporting slave sale stories again--omitting themost unpleasant details. But he stressed news aboutsuccessful runaways, featuring the black grapevine tales hehad heard about wily, fast talking slaves in the act of escapingand making fools of ignorant poor cracker pate rollers Onenight he told them of a high-yaller butler and a black stablehand having stolen a buggy, horse, and fine clothing and a hatthat the high yaller wore while he pretended to be a richmassa loudly cursing his black buggy driver whenever hedrew within earshot of any white patrols they met along theirrapid buggy ride into the North and automatic freedom.Another time Kunta told of a no less audacious slave whoalways galloped his mule almost into the pate rollers facesbefore halting and unrolling with a flourish a large, fine-printdocument that he said would explain his urgent errand for hismassa--gambling always correctly that the illiterate whitecrackers would wave him on rather than admit they couldn'tread. Kunta often now set the slave-row people to laughing--telling such as how other escaping blacks had so perfectedan act of chronic stuttering that disgusted "pa- terollers" toldthem to get along their way rather than spend obvious hourstrying to question them. He told of runaways' affected fearfulreluctance before finally apologetically confiding how muchtheir rich, powerful mass as despised poor whites and howharshly they dealt with any interference with their servants.One night Kunta set slave row to roaring about a house slavehe'd been told of who reached safety up North just a jump

ahead of his hotly pursuing massa, who quickly summoned apoliceman. "You know you my nigger!" the massa screamedwildly at his slave, who simply looked blank and, keptexclaiming, "He'p me Gawd, I ain't never set eyes on dat whiteman!"--convincing a gathered crowd, along with thepoliceman who ordered the furious white man to quiet downand move on or he'd have to arrest him for disturbing thepeace. For years now Kunta had managed to avoid goinganywhere near any slave auction, ever since the one wherethe girl had futilely cried out to him for help. But a few monthsafter his talk with Cato and the fiddler, one early afternoonKunta drove the massa into the public square of the countyseat just as a slave sale was beginning. "Oyez, oyez,gentlemen of Spotsylvania, I offer the finest lot of niggers everseen in y'all's lives!" As the auctioneer shouted to the crowd,his beefy, younger assistant jerked an old slave woman uponto the platform. "A fine cook!" he began--but she beganscreaming, gesturing frantically to a white man in the crowd:"Massa Philip! Philip! you act like you done forgot I worked fo'you an' yo' brudders' daddy when y'all was jes' young'uns!Knows I'se of' an' ain't much now, but please, Lawd, keep me!I work for you hard, Massa Philip! Please, suh, don' let 'emwhup me to death somewheres down South! " "Stop thebuggy, Toby!" the massa ordered. Kunta's blood ran cold ashe reined the horses to a halt. Why after all these years ofshowing no interest in slave auctions did Massa Waller wantto watch one? Was he thinking of buying someone, or what?Was it the pitiful woman's heartbreaking outburst? Whomevershe had appealed to yelled back some ridicule, and the crowd

was still laughing when a trader bought her for seven hundreddollars. "He'p me. Gawd, Jesus, Lawd, he'p me!" she cried asthe trader's black helper began shoving her roughly toward theslave pen. "Git yo' black hands off'n me, nigger!" shescreamed, and the crowd rocked with laughter. Kunta bit hislip, blinking back tears. "Prize buck o' the lot, gentlemen!"Next on the platform was a young black man, glaring balefulhatred, his barrel chest and thickly muscled body crisscrossedwith the angry, reddish welts of a very recent, severe lashing."This one jes' needed some remindin'! He'll heal up quick! Hecan plow a mule into the ground! Pick you four hundredpounds of cotton any day! Look at 'im! A natural stud--if yourwenches ain't bearin' every year like they ought! A steal at anyprice!" The chained young man brought fourteen hundreddollars. Kunta's vision blurred anew as a weeping mulattowoman great with child was led onto the platform. "Two for theprice of one, or one for free, dependin' on how you look at it!"shouted the auctioneer. "Pickaninnies today worth a hundreddollars soon's they draw breath!" She brought a thousanddollars. It was becoming unendurable when the next onecame, being pulled along by her chain--and Kunta nearly fellfrom his seat. The teen-aged black girl, quaking with terror, inher build, her skin color, even her facial features, might havebeen an older Kizzy! As if Kunta had been pole axed, heheard the auctioneer start his spiel: "A fine trainedhousemaid--or she's prime breedin' stock if you want one!" headded with a leering wink. Inviting closer inspection, heabruptly loosened the neck piece of the girl's sack dress,which fell about her feet as she screamed, weeping, flinging

her arms downward in an effort to cover her nakedness fromthe ogling crowd, several of whom jostled forward, reachingout to poke and fondle her. "That's enough! Let's get out ofhere!" the massa commanded--an instant before Kunta felt hewould have done it anyway. Kunta hardly saw the road beforethem as they rode back toward the plantation; his mind wasreeling. What if the girl had really been his Kizzy? What if thecook had been his Bell? What if they both were sold awayfrom him? Or he from them? It was too horrible to think about--but he could think of nothing else. Even before the buggyreached the big house, Kunta intuitively sensed thatsomething was wrong, perhaps because it was a warmsummer evening, yet he saw none of the slave-row peoplestrolling or sitting around outside. Dropping the massa off,Kunta hurriedly unhitched and stabled the horses, thenheaded straight for the kitchen, where he knew Bell now wouldbe preparing the massa's supper. She didn't hear him until heasked through the screen door, "You awright?" "Oh, Kunta!"Whirling around, her eyes wide with shock, loudly she blurted,"Slave trader done been here!" Then, lowering her voice, "Iheard Cato's whippoorwill whistle from out in de fiel' an' run tode front window. Minute I seed dat citified-lookin' white mangit ting off his hoss, I jes' smelt what he was! Lawd a mercy! Iopen de do' by time he got up de steps. He ax to see mymassa or missis. I say my missis in de graveyard, an mymassa a doctor off tendin' sick peoples, an' no tellin' whattime o' night he git back. Den he throw me dis smirkin' lookan' ban' me a li'l card wid printin' on it an' say give dat tomassa an' tell 'im he be back. Well, I'se feared not to give

massa de card--finally jes' stuck it on his desk. " "Bell!" a callcame from the living room. She nearly dropped her spoon.She whispered, "Wait! I be back!" Kunta waited--hardly daringto breathe, expecting the worst--until he saw the returningBell's expression of immense relief. "He say he want earlysupper! De card gone from de desk where I lef it, but he don'say nothin' 'bout it, an' fo' sho' I ain't neither!" After supper. Bellfilled in the field hands on the developments after Cato'swarning whistle, and Aunt Sukey started crying. "Lawd, y'allthink massa gwine sell some us?" "Ain't nobody never gon'beat me no mo'!" declared Cato's big wife, Beulah. A long,heavy silence fell. Kunta could think of nothing to say; but heknew he wasn't going to tell them about the auction. "Well,"said the fiddler finally, "massa ain't one o' dem wid a wholelotta spare niggers. An' he is one dem got plenty money, soain't needin" to sell no niggers to pay debts, like a whole lotdoin'. " Kunta hoped the others found the fiddler's comfortingeffort more convincing than he did. Bell looked a little hopeful."I knows massa, or anyhow, I thinks I does. Long as we's allbeen here, he ain't never sol' off nobody--leas' ways nobody'cept dat buggy driver Luther, an' dat 'cause Luther drawed datmap to he'p a gal try to 'scape." Bell hesitated beforecontinuing. "Naw!" she said. "Massa wouldn't get rid o' noneus widout no good cause--any y'all speck he would?" Butnobody answered.

CHAPTER 79

Kunta's ears were riveted upon the massa's dialogue with a

favorite one of his cousins, who was being brought home fordinner, as they sat in the rear of the rolling buggy. "At a countyseat auction the other day," the massa was saying, "I wasastonished that everyday field hands are selling for twice tothree times what they fetched just a few years ago. And fromadvertisements I read in the Gazette, carpenters, brickmasons blacksmiths--in fact, slaves who are reallyexperienced in about any trade, leather workers sail makersmusicians, whatever, are going for as much as twenty-fivehundred dollars apiece. " "It's the same everywhere since thisnew cotton gin!" exclaimed the massa's cousin. "More than amillion slaves already in the country, I've been told, yet theships still can't seem to bring enough new ones to supplythose Deep South bottom lands trying to meet the demand ofthe northern mills." "What's concerning me is that too manyotherwise sensible planters, in their eagerness for quickprofits, may be starting to see our state of Virginia eventuallylosing its best quality of slaves, even the best breeding stock,"said Massa Waller, "and that's just plain foolishness!""Foolishness? Hasn't Virginia got more slaves than sheneeds? They cost more to maintain than most are worth inwork." "Maybe today," said the massa, "but how do we knowour needs five, ten years from today? Who would havepredicted such a cotton boom as this ten years ago? And I'venever gone along with your very popular talk of slaves' keepcosting so much. It seems to me on any place that's justhalfway well organized, don't they plant, raise, and harvestwhat they eat? And they're usually prolific--every pickaninnythat's born is worth money to you, too. A lot are fully capable of

learning skills to make them even more valuable. I'mconvinced that slaves and land, in that order, are a man's bestinvestments today. I'd never sell either of mine for the samereason--they're the backbone of our system. " "The systemmay be starting to change without many realizing it," said themassa's cousin. "Look at these upstart rednecks struttingaround as if they've entered the planter class just becausethey've bought one or two broken- down slaves to finishworking them to death at building up their pitiful little crops ofcotton and tobacco. They're beyond contempt, but rednecksseem to breed even faster than niggers. Just in sheernumbers they may begin to encroach on our land before longas well as on our labor. " "Well, I don't think we have much toworry about"--the massa chuckled, seemingly amused at histhought"--not as long as poor whites are competing with freeblacks to buy the cast-off slaves." His cousin joined him inlaughter. "Yes, isn't it unbelievable? I hear that half the freeniggers in the cities work day and night to save enough moneyto buy their kinfolk, and then set them free." "It's why we haveso many free blacks in the South," said the massa. "I thinkwe're permitting too many of them in Virginia," said hiscousin. "It's not just how they're sapping our labor supply bybuying up their kin and creating more free blacks. They're alsoat the root of most uprisings. We don't ever want to forget thatblacksmith in Richmond." "True!" said Massa Waller. "But I stillthink that with enough good, strict laws to keep them in theirplaces, and proper examples made of troublemakers, thenmost of them can serve useful purposes--in the cities. I'm toldthat right now, they just about dominate in most of the trades."

"In the traveling I do, I've seen myself how widespread that is,"said his cousin. "They're warehouse and waterfront workers,merchants, undertakers, gardeners. They're the best cooks,also musicians, of course! And I've heard there's not even onewhite barber in the whole city of Lynchburg. I'd have to grow abeard! I'd never let one of them near my throat with a razor! "They both laughed. But then the massa grew serious. "I thinkthe cities may be spawning for us a bigger social problemthan free blacks--I mean these slick-tongued con- man slavetraders. I hear most are former tavern owners, speculators,jackleg teachers, lawyers, preachers, and the like. Three orfour have approached me in the county seat offering sight-unseen prices for my slaves, and one even had the nerve toleave his card here at the house! Far as I'm concerned, they'retotally vultures without scruples." They had arrived at MassaWaller's house, and Kunta--seeming as if he hadn't heard aword they'd said--jumped down to help them out. By the timethey'd gone inside, washed up after the dusty ride, then settledin the drawing room and called Bell to bring them drinks, sheand everyone else on the plantation knew from Kunta the vitalfact that the massa had no plans to sell them. And not longafter supper, Kunta repeated to his rapt slave-row audiencethe entire conversation, as best he could duplicate it. Therewas silence for a moment. Then Sister Mandy spoke. "Massaan' his cousin talkin' 'bout free niggers savin' up to buy kinfolksfree. I wants to know how dem free niggers got dey selvesfree! " "Well," said the fiddler, "whole lotta city slaves' mass aslets 'em learn trades, den hires 'em out fo' pay an' gives 'emsome de money, like massa do wid me. So wid ten, fi'teen

years o' savin', if'n he real lucky, a hire-out nigger can maybegive his massa de money to buy his self free." "Dat why youkeeps so busy fiddlin'?" asked Cato. "Ain't doin' it 'cause Iloves to see white folks dance," said the fiddler. "You got'enough to buy yo'self yet?" "If I did, I wouldn' be here fo' you toax dat question." Everyone laughed. "Is you close, anyways?"Cato persisted. "Don' give up, does you?" said the fiddler,exasperated. "I'se closer'n I was las' week, but not close I'segwine be nex' week." "Awright, but when you gits it, what yougwine do?" "Split de win', brudder! Headin' Nawth! Hearsome dem northern free niggers livin' bet tern plenty whitefolks, an' dat sound' good to me. Speck I move in nex' door toon dem high-tone mulattoes an' start talkin' high-toned an'dressin' up in silk like dey does, an' start to playin' de harp an'gwine to meetin's to 'scuss books an' raisin' flowers an' sichas dat. " When the laughter lessened. Aunt Sukey asked,"What y'all think 'bout what white folks always says dat demmulattoes an' high yallers do so good 'cause de whole lot o'white blood dey got in 'em make 'em smartern we is?" "Well,white mens sho' mixes roun' 'enough dey blood!" Bell saidnoncommittally. "Watch yo' talk 'bout my mammy's oberseer!"the fiddler exclaimed, trying to look insulted. Cato almost felloff his chair laughing till Beulah gave his head a whack withthe back of her hand. "Git serious here!" the fiddler went on."Aunt Sukey ax a question I 'tends to answer! If you jedgin' bysich as me, den you know light-skinned niggers got to besmart! Or take dat brown-skin Benjamin Banneker what whitefolks calls a genius wid figgers, even studyin' de stars an'moon--but whole heap o' smart niggers black like y'all, too!".

Bell said, "I done beared massa talk 'bout a James Der- hamnigger doctor in New Orleans. White doctor what teached 'imclaim he know more 'n he do, an' he black as dey gits, too.""Tell you an udder one," said the fiddler. "Dat Prince Hall whatstarted dat nigger Masonic Order! I seen pictures some dembig preachers what started dem nigger churches, most of 'emso black you couldn't hardly see 'em less'n dey eyes wasopen. An' what 'bout dat Phyllis Wheatley what writes dempomes white folks say so fine, an' dat Gustavus Vassa whatwrites books?" The fiddler glanced in Kunta's direction."Dey's both straight-from-Africa niggers, not nary drop o' whitefolks' blood, an' dey sho' don't sound' all dat dumb to me!"Then laughing, the fiddler said, " " Co'se, dey's always dumbblack niggers--take Cato here... " He sprang up and ran withCato two steps behind. "Cotch you, I'll dumb you upside dehead!" Cato shouted. When the others stopped guffawing,Kunta spoke. "Laugh all y'all want. All niggers de same towhite folks. One drop o' nigger blood means nigger if you'seven whitern dem--an I'se seed plenty dat is." It was about amonth later when the fiddler returned from one of his tripsbearing news that he had seen elating whites everywhere he'dbeen--and that plunged slave row into gloom: The Frenchleader named Napoleon had sent across the big water a hugearmy which, after much fighting and bloodshed, had takenHaiti back from the blacks and their liberator. GeneralToussaint. Invited to dinner by the victorious French army'sgeneral, Toussaint had made the mistake of accepting; duringthe meal, the waiters seized and trussed him, and rushed himonto a ship bound for France, where he had been taken in

chains before Napoleon, who had plotted the entire treachery.Being the black General Toussaint's greatest admirer on theplantation, Kunta took the news harder than anyone else. Hewas still sitting dejectedly in the fiddler's cabin when the last ofthe others trudged silently out. "I knows how you felt 'bout datToussaint," said the fiddler, "an' I don' want you to think I takesit light, but I got a piece o' news I jes' cain't hoi' in anotherminute!" Kunta glanced grimly at the fiddler, further offendedthat he looked ready to pop open with happiness. What newscould be so good as to affect anyone's proper respect for thehumiliation of the greatest black leader of all time? "I done it!"The fiddler was a study of excitement. "I din't say nothin' jes' amonth back when Cato axed how much I had saved up, butden I was jes' a few dollars short--an' now I jes' done made itwid dis trip! Took me playin' over nine hunnud times fo' whitefolks to dance, an' I sho' din't know if I'd ever make it, so I din'ttalk 'bout it wid nobody--not even you--'til I done it! African, Igot dat seven hunnud dollars what massa long time ago tol'me I'd have to earn to buy myself free!" Kunta was toothunderstruck to speak. "Looka here!" said the fiddler, rippingopen his mattress and dumping the contents out onto the floor;hundreds of dollar bills eddied about their feet. "An' lookahere!" he said, dragging a gunny sack out from under the bedand emptying it, clinking, on top of the bills--hundreds of coinsof every denomination. "Well, African, you gwine say sump'n,or jes' stan' dere wid yo' mouf open?" "Don't know what tosay," said Kunta. "How 'bout " gratulations'? " "Jes" seem toogood to be true. " "It true awright. I done counted it a thou santimes. Even got 'enough extra to buy me a cardboard

suitcase!" Kunta just couldn't believe it. The fiddler was reallygoing to be free! It wasn't just a dream. Kunta felt like laughingand crying--for himself as much as for his friend. The. fiddlerknelt and began scooping up the money. "Look, you deafndumb 'bout dis till tomorrow mawnin', awright? Dat when Igoes to see massa an' tell 'im he seven hunnud dollars richer!You gwine be glad as he is to see me go?" "Glad fo' you. Notfo' me," said Kunta. "If you tryin' to make me feel so sorry foryou, I buy you free, too, you gwine wait a spell! Done took methutty-three years fiddlin' to freedom!" By the time Kunta gotback to his own cabin, he had begun to miss the fiddleralready, and Bell mistook his sadness for grief aboutToussaint, so he didn't have to hide--or explain--what he wasfeeling. When he went by the fiddler's cabin the next morningafter feeding the horses, he found it empty, so he went to askBell if he was in with the massa. "He let an hour ago. Ack likehe seen a ghost. What de matter wid 'im, an' what he want widmassa anyways?" "What he say when he come out?" askedKunta. "Don' say nothin'. Tol' you he went pas' me like I wasn'tdere." Without another word, Kunta walked out the screendoor and back toward slave row--with Bell shouting after him,"Now where you going'?" And when he didn't answer: "Datright! Don't tell me nothin'! I'se jes' yo' wife!" Kunta haddisappeared. After asking around, knocking at every cabindoor, even peeking inside the privy and shouting "Fiddler!" inthe barn, Kunta headed down along the fence row When hehad gone a good way, he heard it--sad, slow strains of a songhe had heard blacks at an "0 Lawd" camp meeting singingonce... only this time it was being played on a fiddle. The

fiddler's music was always rollicking and happy; this soundedalmost as if the fiddle were sobbing, drifting up along thefence row Quickening his stride, Kunta came within sight of anoak tree spreading half over a brook down near the edge ofMassa Waller's property. Approaching closer, he saw thefiddler's shoes extending from behind the tree. Just then, themusic stopped--and so did Kunta, feeling suddenly like anintruder. He stood still, waiting for the fiddling to resume, butthe drone of bees and the burble of the streum were the onlysounds that broke the silence. At last, almost sheepishly,Kunta moved around the tree and faced the fiddler. Oneglance was all he needed to know what had happened--thelight was gone from his friend's face; the familiar sparkle in hiseyes had been extinguished. "You need so; the mattressstuflin'?" The fiddler's voice was cracking. Kunta said nothing.Tears began to drip down along the fiddler's cheeks; hebrushed them furiously away as it they were acid, and thewords came in a rush: "I tells 'im I finally got de money to buyme free--ev'y penny of it. He hem an' haw a minute, an' look atde ceilin'. Den he gratulaic me on savin' up so much. But denhe tells me if I wants to, de seven hunnud could be a downpayment, 'cause in doin' business he got to consider how deslave prices done gone way up since dat cotton gin come in.He say now he couldn't 'cept no less'n fifteen hunnud at deleas' fo' a good money-makin' fiddler like me, dat he could gittwenty-five hunnud fo' if he was to sell me to somebody else.He say he real sorry, but he hope I under stan business isbusiness, an' he have to git fair return on his 'vestment." Thefiddler began openly sobbing now. "He say being' free ain't all

it cracked up to be nohow, an' he wish me debes luck incomin' up wid de res' if I insists... an' he tell me keep up degood work... an' when I got out, would I ax Bell to bring 'imsome coffee." He fell silent. Kunta just stood there. "Dat son-of-a-bitch!" the fiddler screamed suddenly, and flinging backhis arm, he hurled his fiddle into the stream. Kunta waded in toget it, but even before he reached down, he could see it wasbroken.

CHAPTER 80

When Kunta got home with the massa well into one night afew rnon. hs later. Bell was less irritated than concerned thatthey were both too tired even to eat the good supper she'dprepared. For a strange fever had begun to strike throughoutthe county, and the two men had been leaving earlier eachmorning and coming back later each night in the massa'sefforts as the county's doctor to keep up with the spreadingcontagion. Kunta was so worn out, slumped in his rockingchair, staring vacantly at the fire, that he didn't even notice Bellfeeling his forehead and taking off his shoes. And hal fan hourpassed before he realized suddenly that Kizzy wasn't on hislap, as usual, showing him some new plaything she'd made orprattling about what She'd done that day. "Where dat chile?"he asked finally. "Put 'er to bed an hour ago,"said Bell. "Sheain't sick, is she?" he asked, sitting up. "Naw, jes' tuckered outfrom play. Missy Anne come over today." Kunta was tooexhausted even to feel his customary annoyance, but Bellchanged the subject anyway. "While Roosby waitin' to take 'er

home, he tell me he beared de fiddler playin' other night at aball he took Massa John to over in Fredericksburg. He say hedidn't hardly recognize de fiddlin', it jes' don't sound' de same.I didn't tell 'im de fiddler his self ain't de same since he find outhe ain't free." "Seem like he don't care 'bout nothin' no mo',"said Kunta. "Sho' seem dat. He keep to his self don't hardlyeven nod to nobody no mo', 'ceptin' Kizzy when she bring 'imsupper an' set wid 'im whilst he eat it. She de onliest one hewant anythin' to do wid. Don't even spen' no time wid you nomo'. " "What wid dis fever going' roun' lately," said Kuntawearily, "I ain't hardly had no time or stren'th for visitin' no ways"Yeah, I been noticin', an' you ain't gon' set up here half denight, you going' straight to bed." "Leave me 'lone, woman. I'mfine." "Naw you ain't!" Bell said decisively, taking him by thehand, helping him up, and leading him into the bedroomwithout his further resistance. Kunta sat on the edge of thebed while she helped him out of his clothes; then he lay down,sighing. "Roll over an' I gives you a back rub He obeyed, andshe began kneading his back with her stiffened fingers. Hewinced. "What's de matter? I ain't rubbin' all dat hard." "Ain'tnothin'." "Do dis hurt here, too?" she asked, pressing downfarther toward the small of his back. "Owl" "Don't like de lookso' dis," she said, lightening her touch to a caress. "I'se jes'tired. All I need's a night's sleep." "We'll see," she said,blowing out the candle and climbing in beside him. But whenshe had served the massa his breakfast the next morning. Bellhad to tell him that Kunta had been unable to rise from hisbed. "Probably fever," said the massa, trying to conceal hisirritation. "You know what to do. In the meanwhile, there's an

epidemic going on and I've got to have a driver." "Yassa,Massa." She thought for a moment. "You got any objection todat fiel'-hand boy Noah? He done growed up so fast he 'boutman-size now. Handle de mules good, he sho' could drive yo'bosses, too, sun." "How old is he now?" "Well suh, Noah roun'two years older'n my Kizzy, so dat"--she paused to count onher fingers, "--dat make him thirteen or fo'teen, I b'lieve, suh.""Too young," said the massa. "You go tell that fiddler to takeover. He's not doing that much in the garden, or with his fiddleeither, lately. Have him hitch up the horses and get aroundfront right away. " On her way to the fiddler's cabin. Bellguessed that he'd be either very indifferent or very upset aboutthe news. He was both. He didn't seem to care one way or theother about having to drive the massa, but when he learnedthat Kunta was ill, the fiddler got so concerned that she had totalk him out of stopping off at their cabin before picking up themassa. From that day on, the fiddler was a changed man--certainly no happier than he'd been acting for the past fewmonths, but caring, considerate, and tireless as he drove themassa all about the county day and night, and then camehome to help Bell care for Kunta and others on slave row whoalso had come down with the fever. Before long, so manypeople were sick--both on the plantation and off--that themassa pressed Bell into service as his assistant. While heattended the whites, the boy Noah drove her around in themule cart taking care of the blacks. "Massa got his medicines,I got mine," she confided to the fiddler. After administering themassa's drugs, she gave her patients her secret brew ofdried, powdered herbs mixed with water from boiled

persimmon tree bark--that she swore would work better andfaster than any white folks' remedy. But what would really curethem, she confided to Sister Mandy and Aunt Sukey, was thatalways she knelt down at a patient's bedside and prayed forhim. "Whatever He bring on man. He can take away if He wantto," she said. But some of her patients died anyway--as wellas Massa Waller's. As Kunta's own condition steadilyworsened, despite everything Bell and the massa could do,her prayers became more and more fervent. Kunta's strange,silent, stubborn ways had been entirely forgotten as, herselftoo tired to sleep, she sat by his bed each night as he laysweating heavily, tossing, moaning, or at times babbling inspells of delirium beneath the several quilts she'd piled onhim. She would hold his hot, dry hand in hers, desperatelyafraid that she might never be able to tell him what had takenthis, after all these years, for her fully to realize: that he was aman of caliber of strength, and of character, that she hadnever known the equal of, and she loved him very deeply. Hehad been in a coma for three days when Missy Anne came tovisit the massa and found Kizzy in the cabin, with Bell, SisterMandy, and Aunt Sukey, all of them weeping and praying.Tearful herself. Missy Anne returned to the big house and toldthe weary Massa Waller that she wanted to read somethingfrom the Bible for Kizzy's pappy. But she said she didn't knowwhat would be a good place to read from, so would he pleaseshow her? The massa's eyes drank in the wet-eyedearnestness of his beloved niece, and getting up from thecouch, he unlocked his bookcase and took out his big Bible.After a thoughtful moment, he turned to a page and pointed

out with his forefinger the exact spot where she should begin.As the word passed in slave row that Missy Anne was goingto read something, everyone quickly assembled outside Belland Kunta's cabin, and she started to read: "The Lord is myshepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in greenpastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restorethmy soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for Hisname's sake." Missy Anne paused, frowning at the page, thenwent on. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadowof death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod andThy staff they comfort me." She paused again, this time for adeep breath, and looked up uncertainly at the faces watchingher. Deeply moved. Sister Mandy couldn't stop herself fromexclaiming, "Lawd, listen to dat chile! Done growed up an'learnt to read so good!" Amid a hubbub of praises fromothers, Noah's mother Ada marveled, "Look like jes' yestiddyshe runnin' roun' here in diapers! How of' she now?" "Ain'tlong turnt fo'teen!" said Bell as proudly as if she were her own."Please read us a li'l mo', honey!" Flushed with theircompliments, Missy Anne read the final verse of the Twenty-third Psalm. Between treatment and prayer, a few days laterKunta showed signs of beginning to rally. Bell knew he wasgoing to be all right when he glared at her and snatched fromaround his neck the dried rabbit's foot and the bag ofasafoetida she had tied there to ward off further bad luck andsickness. And Kizzy knew it when she whispered into his earthat on the past new-moon morning she had put a prettypebble into his gourd, and his drawn face found a broadsmile. And Kunta knew that the fiddler was going to be all right

when Kunta waked up one morning with a start to the sound offiddling beside his bed. "I mus' be dreamin'," said Kunta,opening his eyes. "Not no mo', you ain't," said the fiddler. "I'sesick an' tired o' drivin' yo' massa all over hell an' gone. Gotburn holes in my coat from his eyes at my back. Time youeither git up or move over, nigger!"

CHAPTER 81

Kunta was sitting up in bed the next day when he heard Kizzyenter the cabin laughing and chattering with Missy Anne, whowas on vacation from school, and he heard them pulling backchairs to sit at the table in the next room. "Kizzy, have youstudied your lessons?" Missy Anne sternly demanded, playingteacher. "Yes, ma'am," snickered Kizzy. "Very well, then--what's that?" After a short silence, the intently listening Kuntaheard Kizzy falter that she couldn't remember. "It's a D," saidMissy Anne. "Now what's this one?" Almost instantly Kizzycried triumphantly, "Dat's dat circle, a O!" Both girls laughedhappily. "Good! You ain't forgot it. Now, what's that?" "Ah...uh... urn..." Then Kizzy exulted, "Dat's G!" "Right!" Afteranother brief silence, Missy Anne said, "Now, see that? D-O-G. What's that? " Kizzy's silence told him that she didn't know--as neither did he. "Dog!" Missy Anne exclaimed. "You hearme? Don't forget, D-O-G! You got to learn all the letters good,then we'll do some more about how they make words." Afterthe girls left the cabin, Kunta lay thinking hard. He couldn't helpfeeling some pride in Kizzy's learning ability. On another hand,he couldn't stomach that it was toubob things her head was

being stuffed with. It maybe explained why lately she hadseemed to show less interest in their conversations aboutAfrica. It might be too late, but he wondered if he shouldreconsider his decision not to teach her how to read in Arabic.But then he thought that would be as foolish as encouragingher to continue her lessons with Missy Anne. Suppose MassaWaller were to discover that Kizzy could read--in anylanguage! That would be a good way to end the white girl's"school teaching," and yet better, it might even end theirrelationship. But the trouble was that Kunta couldn't be surethe massa would let the matter stop at that. So Kizzy's"school" continued at least two or three times weekly, untilMissy Anne had to return to her own daily studies--about thetime that Kunta, now adequately recovered, returned to relievethe happy fiddler of driving the massa in his buggy. But evenafter Missy Anne was gone, night after night, as Bell sewed orknitted and Kunta rocked in his chair before the fireplace,Kizzy would sit bent over the table, her pencil almost touchingher cheek, carefully copying words from a book Missy Annehad given her or from a torn piece of one of the massa'sdiscarded newspapers. Sitting with his back to them, Kuntasometimes would hear Kizzy involve Bell, although Kizzy knewof her mother's ability to read and write a bit herself. "Naw,data A, Mammy," Kizzy might explain, "an' data 0. It ain'tnothin' but a li'l circle." In time, she began to move on towords, just as Missy Anne did with her. "Dat's 'dog," an dat's'cat'. an' dat dere's "Kizzy'. . . an' dis here's yo' name, B-E-L-L.How you like dat? You write it now. " And Bell would made agreat pretense of struggling with the pencil as she scrawled it

out, deliberately making some mistakes so that Kizzy wouldhave a chance to correct her. "You does like I shows you,Mammy, you can write good as me," said Kizzy, proud ofhaving something to teach her mother for a change. One nighta few weeks later, after Kizzy had fallen asleep at the tableafter hours of copying her latest writing lesson from MissyAnne, Bell sent her daughter to bed and soon after herself layalongside Kunta and said quietly, "Ain't no game no mo'. Datchile awready know more'n I does. I jes' hopes it he's awright,Lawd have mercy!" Over the months that followed, Kizzy andMissy Anne continued to visit one another, mostly onweekends, but not every weekend, and after a while, Kuntabegan to detect--or wishfully felt that he did--if not exactly acooling between the two of them, at least some slow, subtleebbing in their closeness, a gradual growing apart as MissyAnne began to ripen toward young womanhood four yearsahead of Kizzy. Finally the milestone of her long-awaitedsixteenth birthday was about to arrive, but three days beforethe party that was being planned, the willful, hot-headed MissyAnne galloped angrily over to Massa Waller's house--bareback on their buggy horse--and told him, amid copioustears, that her sickly mother was affecting one of her week-long headaches as an effort to call it off. And with muchpouting, eyelash fluttering, and tugging his sleeve, sheimplored him to let her party be at his house instead. Unableto refuse her anything she'd ever asked, he said yes, ofcourse, and as Roosby rushed all over the county informingthe dozens of teen-aged guests about the change of address.Bell and Kizzy helped Missy Anne with all of the frantic last-

minute preparations. They were completed barely in time forKizzy to help Missy Anne into her party gown and downstairsto greet her guests. But then, as Bell told Kunta fater, from themoment the first carriage arrived. Missy Anne suddenly hadacted as if she didn't even know the starchly uniformed,aproned Kizzy, who kept circulating among the guests bearingtrays of refreshments, "till depo chile come bustin' in dekitchen cryin' her eyes out." That night in the cabin, Kizzy wasstill weeping as Bell tried to comfort her. "She jes' donegrowed up into a young missy, now, honey, an' her mind ondem kind o' things. Ain't she think no less o' you, or reallymeant no harm. Dis time always come, fo' any us dat'sgrowed up real close wid white young'uns, when you jes' got togo yo' own way, an' dey goes dere's. " Kunta sat seething withthe same emotions he had felt when he had first seen MissyAnne playing with the infant Kizzy in her basket. Across thetwelve rains since then, he had asked Allah many times to endthe toubob girl's closeness to his Kizzy--and though finally hisprayers had been answered, still it both hurt and angered himto see her so deeply wounded. But it had been necessary,and surely from this experience she would learn andremember. Moreover, from the tightness that Kunta had seenin Bell's face as she had been talking to Kizzy, he felt somehope that even Bell might have gotten cured of at least someof her sickening great affection for the obviously treacherous,conniving "young missy." Missy Anne still continued to visit atMassa Waller's, although much less often than before since--as Roosby confided to Bell--young mass as had begun tooccupy her time. When she visited, she always saw Kizzy; and

usually she'd bring along an old dress for Bell to "let out" forKizzy, who was physically bigger, despite being yearsyounger. But now, as if by some unspoken agreement, the twoof them would spend around a half hour together, walking andtalking quietly in the backyard near slave row, and then. MissyAnne would leave. Kizzy would always stand looking after her,then very quickly she would walk back into the cabin and buryherself in study, often reading and writing until suppertime.Kunta still didn't like the idea of her increasing abilities to doeither, but he accepted that she must have something tooccupy herself with now that she'd lost her lifelong friend. HisKizzy was herself now approaching adolescence, hereflected, which likely was going to present them both with awhole new area of worries. Just after Christmas of the nextyear--1803--the winds blew the snow into deep, feathery driftsuntil in places the roads were hidden and impassable for allbut the biggest wagons. When the massa went out--inresponse to only the most desperate summons--he had toride on one of the horses, and Kunta stayed behind, busilyhelping Cato, Noah, and the fiddler to keep the driveway clearand to chop wood to keep all of the fireplaces steadily going.Cut off as they were--even from Massa Waller's Gazette,which had stopped arriving about a month before with the firstbig snow--the slave-row people were still talking about the lastbits of news that had gotten through to them: how pleased thewhite mass as were with the way President Jefferson was"runnin the gubmint," despite the mass as initial reservationstoward his views regarding slaves. Since taking office.President Jefferson had reduced the size of the Army and

Navy, lowered the public debt, even abolished the personalproperty tax--that last act, the fiddler said, particularly havingimpressed those of the massa class with his greatness. ButKunta said that when he had made his last trip to the countyseat before they had gotten snowed in, white folks hadseemed to him even more excited about PresidentJefferson's purchase of the huge "Louisiana Territory" for butthree cents an acre. "What I likes 'bout it," he said, " 'cordin' towhat I beared, dat Massa Napoleon had to sell it so cheap'cause he in sich hot water in France over what it cost 'im inmoney, 'long wid fifty thou san Frenchmans got killed or died'fo' dey beat dat Toussaint in Haiti." They were all still warmingthemselves in the glow of that thought a later afternoon when ablack rider arrived amid a snowstorm with an urgently illpatient's message for the massa--and another of dismal newsfor the slave row: In a damp dungeon on a remote Frenchmountain where Napoleon had sent him, Haiti's GeneralToussaint had died of cold and starvation. Three days later,Kunta was still feeling stricken and depressed when hetrudged back to the cabin one afternoon for a mug of hotsoup, and stamping snow from his shoes, then entering pullingoff his gloves, he found Kizzy stretched out on her pallet in thefront room, her face drawn and frightened. "She feelin' poly,"was the explanation that Bell offered as she strained a cup ofher herb tea and ordered Kizzy to sit up and drink it. Kuntasensed that something more was being kept from him; thenwhen he was a few more minutes there in the over-warm,tightly closed, mud-chinked cabin, his nostrils helped him toguess that Kizzy was experiencing her first time of the

bloodiness. He had watched his Kizzy growing and maturingalmost every day now for nearly thirteen rains, and he hadlately come to accept within himself that her ripening intowomanhood would be only a matter of time; yet somehow hefelt completely unprepared for this pungent evidence. Afteranother day abed, though, the hardy Kizzy was back up andabout in the cabin, then back at work in the big house--and itwas as if overnight that Kunta began actually noticing for thefirst time how his girichild's always previously narrow bodyhad budded. With a kind of embarrassed awe, he saw thatsomehow she had gotten mango- sized breasts and that herbuttocks had begun to swell and curve. She even seemed tobe walking in a less girlish way. Now, whenever he camethrough the bedroom separator curtain into the front roomwhere Kizzy slept, he began to avert his eyes, and wheneverKizzy happened not to be clothed fully, he sensed that she feltthe same. In Africa now, he thought--Africa had sometimesseemed so distantly in the past--Bell would be instructingKizzy in how to make her skin shine using shea-tree butter,and how to fashionably beautifully blacken her mouth, palms,and soles, using the powdered crust from the bottom ofcooking pots. And Kizzy would at her present age already bestarting to attract men who were seeking for themselves afinely raised, well-trained, virginal young wife. Kunta felt joltedeven by the thought of some man's foto entering Kizzy'sthighs; then he felt better after reassuring himself that thiswould happen only after a proper wedding. In his homeland atthis time, as Kizzy's fa, he would be assuming hisresponsibility to appraise very closely the personal qualities

as well as the family backgrounds of whatever men began toshow marriageable interest in Kizzy--in order to select themost ideal of them for her; and he would also be deciding nowwhat proper bride price would be asked for her hand. But aftera while, as he continued to shovel snow along with the fiddler,young Noah, and Cato, Kunta found himself gradually feelingincreasingly ridiculous that he was even thinking about theseAfrican customs and traditions anymore; for not only wouldthey never be observed here, nor respected--indeed, hewould also be hooted at if he so much as mentioned them,even to other blacks. And anyway, he couldn't think of anylikely, well-qualified suitor for Kizzy who was of propermarriageable age--between thirty and thirty-five rains--butthere he was doing it again I He was going to have to forcehimself to start thinking along lines of the marrying customshere in the toubob's country--where girls generally married"--jumpin' de broom," it was called--someone who was aroundtheir same age. Immediately then Kunta began thinking aboutNoah. He had always liked the boy. At fifteen, two years olderthan Kizzy, Noah seemed to be no less mature, serious, andresponsible than he was big and strong. The more Kuntathought about it, the only thing he could find lacking with Noah,in fact, was that he had never seemed to show the slightestpersonal interest in Kizzy--not to mention that Kizzy herselfseemed to act as if Noah didn't exist. Kunta pondered: Whyweren't they any more interested than that in each other, at theleast in being friends? After all, Noah was very much as hehimself had been as a young man, and therefore he washighly worthy of Kizzy's attention, if not her admiration. He

wondered: Wasn't there something he could do to influencethem into each other's paths? But then Kunta sensed thatprobably would be the best way to insure their never gettingtogether. He decided, as usual, that it was wisest that he mindhis own business--and, as he-had heard Bell put it, with "desap startin' to rise" within the young pair of them who wereliving right there in the same slave row, he privately would askif Allah would consider helping nature to take its CHAPTER82 "You listen here, gal, don' you never lemme hear 'bout youfannin' yo' tail roun' dat Noah no mo'! I take a hik'ry stick to youin a minute." Headed home, Kunta stopped in his tracks twoor three steps from the door of the cabin and I stood listeningas Bell went on: "Why, you ain't even turned sixteen yet! Whatyo' pappy think, you carryin' on like dat? " He quietly turnedand went back down along the path to the privacy of the barn,to consider the implications of what he had heard. "Fannin'her tail"--around Noah! Bell personally hadn't seen whatever itwas, but someone had told her. No doubt it had been AuntSukey or Sister Mandy: Knowing those old biddies, it wouldn'tsurprise him if either or both of them had witnessedsomething completely innocent and made it sound suggestivejust to have something to cluck about. But what? From whathe'd overheard, Bell probably wouldn't tell him unless it wasrepeated and she needed him to put a stop to it. It was a kindof thing he'd never dream of querying Bell about, for that wastoo much like women's gossip. But what if it hadn't been soinnocent? Had Kizzy been flaunting herself before Noah? Andif she had, what had he done to encourage it? He hadseemed to be a young man of honor, of good character--but

you never knew. Kunta wasn't sure how to feel or what to think.In any case, as Bell had said, their daughter was only fifteen,which in the customs of the toubob's land was still too youngfor her to be thinking about getting married. He realized thathe wasn't feeling very African about it, but somehow he Justdidn't feel ready to think about Kizzy walking around with a bigbelly as he'd seen on so many girls her age, even younger. Ifshe did marry Noah, though, he thought, at least their childwould be black and not one of those pale sasso borro babies,products of the mothers having been raped by lusting mass asor overseers. Kunta thanked Allah that neither his Kizzy norany other slave-row women ever had faced that horrifyingexperience, or at least not since he had been there, forcountless times he had heard Massa Waller stronglyexpressing among friends his convictions against white andblack bloods being mixed. The next few weeks, as theopportunity would present, Kunta covertly watched Kizzy'sbottom for any signs of wiggling. He never caught her at it, butonce or twice both he and she were startled when he cameupon her in the cabin twirling round and round, tossing herhead and humming dreamily to herself. Kunta also kept aclose eye on Noah; he noticed that now--unlike before--Noahand Kizzy would nod and smile whenever they passed eachother within the sight of anyone else. The more he mused onit, the more strongly he speculated that they were skillfullyconcealing their ardor. After a while Kunta decided that thereshould be no harm in Noah and Kizzy's publicly takingconversational walks together; in his accompanying her tocamp meeting, or to the "dance-ol'Jenny-down" frolics that

were held each summer, where Noah as her partner wouldsurely be preferable to some impudent stranger. Indeed, itwas possible that, after another rain or so for them both, Noahmight even make Kizzy a good mate. An awareness began todawn within Kunta that Noah had begun to observe him, justas closely as the other way around, and now Kuntaanticipated, nervously, that the boy was trying to muster thenerve to ask if he could marry Kizzy. It was on a Sundayafternoon in early April--Massa Waller had brought a family ofguests home with him after church, and Kunta was outside thebarn polishing the guests' buggy--when something told him toglance up, and he saw the dark, slender Noah walkingpurposefully down along the path from slave row. ReachingKunta, he spoke without hesitation, as if his words wererehearsed: "01' suh, you's de onliest one I feels like I can trust.I got to tell somebody. I can't live no mo' like dis. I got to runaway." Kunta was so astounded that at first he could think ofnothing to say--he just stood there staring at Noah. Kuntafinally found some words. "You ain't gon' run nowhere widKizzy!" It wasn't a question but a statement. "Nawsuh, wouldn'twant to git 'er in no trouble." Kunta felt embarrassed. After awhile he said non- committaUy, "Reckon sometime ever' bodyfeel like runnin'." Noah's eyes inspected his. "Kizzy tol' meMiss Bell say you run off fo' times." Kunta nodded, his face stillshowing nothing of how he was thinking back on himself at thesame age, freshly arrived, so desperately obsessed with run,run, run that every day spent waiting and watching for the nexteven half-decent opportunity was an unbearable torment. Aswift realization thrust itself into his head that if Kizzy didn't

know, as Noah's earlier statement could be interpreted shedidn't, then whenever her loved one suddenly disappeared,she was sure to be utterly devastated--so soon again after hercrushing heartbreak involving the toubob girl. He thought that itjust couldn't be helped. He thought that, for numerous reasons,whatever he said to Noah must be considered carefully.

He said gravely,

"Ain't gwine tell you run or don't run. But less'n you ready to dieif you gits caught, you ain't ready." "Ain't plannin' to git caught,"said Noah. "I'se beared de main thing is you follows de NawthStar, an' it's different Quaker white folks an' free niggers he'psyou hide in de day times Den you's free once you hits datOhio." How little he knows, thought Kunta. How couldescaping seem anywhere near so simple? But then herealized that Noah was young--as he had been; also that likemost slaves, Noah had seldom set foot beyond theboundaries of his plantation. This was why most of those whoran, field. hands especially, were usually captured so soon,bleeding from briar cuts, half starved and stumbling around inforests and swamps full of water moccasins and rattlesnakes.In a rush, Kunta remembered the running, the dogs, the guns,the whips--the ax. "You don' know what you talkin' 'bout, boy!"he rasped, regretting his words almost as they were uttered."What I mean to say--it jes' ain't dat easy! You know 'bout dembloodhounds dey uses to coteh you?" Noah's right hand slidinto his pocket and withdrew a knife. He nicked it open, theblade honed until it gleamed dully. "I figgers dead dogs don't

eat nobody." Cato had said that Noah feared nothing. "Jes'can't let nothin' stop me," Noah said, closing the knife andreturning it into his pocket. "Well, if you gwine run, you gwinerun," said Kunta. "Don't know 'zactly when," said Noah. "Jes'knows I got to go."

Kunta re-emphasized awkwardly,

"Jes' make sho' Kizzy ain't in none o' dis." Noah didn't seemoffended. His eyes met Kunta's squarely. "Nawsuh." Hehesitated. "But when I gits Nawth, I means to work an' buy herfree." He paused. "You ain't gon' tell her none o' dis, is you?"

Now Kunta hesitated. Then he said,

"Dat 'tween you and her." "I tell her in good time," said Noah.Impulsively, Kunta grasped the young man's hand betweenboth of his own. "I hopes you makes it." "Well, I see you!" saidNoah, and he turned to walk back toward slave row. Sittingthat night in the cabin's front room, staring into the low flamesof the hickory log burning in the fireplace, Kunta wore afaraway expression that made both Bell and Kizzy know out ofpast experiences that it would be futile to make any effort totalk with him. Quietly Bell knitted. Kizzy was as usual hunchedover the table practicing her writing. At sunup, Kunta decidedhe would ask Allah to grant Noah good luck. He thought afreshthat if Noah did get away, it would yet again crush utterlyKizzy's trusting faith that already had been wounded so badlyby Missy Anne. He glanced up and watched his preciousKizzy's face as her lips moved silently, following her finger

across a page. The lives of all black people in the toubob landseemed full of suffering, but he wished he could spare hersome of it.

CHAPTER 83

It was a week after Kizzy's sixteenth birthday, the earlymorning of the first Monday of October, when the slave- rowfield hands were gathering as usual to leave for their dayswork, when someone asked curiously, "Where Noah at?"Kunta, who happened to be standing nearby talking to Cato,knew immediately that he was gone. He saw heads glancingaround, Kizzy's among them, straining to maintain a mask ofcasual surprise. Their eyes met--she had to look away."Thought he was out here early wid you," said Noah's motherAda to Cato. "Naw, I was aimin' to give 'im de debbil fo'sleepin' late," said Cato. Cato went banging his fist at theclosed door of the cabin, once occupied by the old gardener,but which Noah had inherited recently on his eighteenthbirthday. Jerking the door open, Cato charged inside,shouting angrily, "Noah!" He came out looking worried. "Ain'tlike 'im," he said quietly. Then he ordered everyone to goquickly and search their cabins, the toilet, the storerooms, thefields. All the others ran off in all directions; Kunta volunteeredto search the barn. "NOAH! NOAH!" he called loudly for thebenefit of any who might hear, although he knew there was noneed of it, as the animals in their stalls stopped chewing theirmorning hay to look at him oddly. Then, peering from the doorand seeing no one coming that way, Kunta hastened back

inside to climb quickly to the hayloft, where he prostratedhimself and made his second appeal to Allah for Noah'ssuccessful escape. Cato worriedly dispatched the rest of thefield hands off to their work, telling them that he and the fiddlerwould join them shortly; the fiddler had wisely volunteered tohelp with the fieldwork ever since his income from playing fordances had fallen off. "B'lieve he done run," the fiddlermuttered to Kunta as they stood in the backyard.

As Kunta grunted. Bell said,

"He ain't never been missin', an' he don't slip off nights." ThenCato said what was uppermost in all of their minds. "Gwinehave to tell massa, Lawd have mercy!" After a hurriedconsultation, Bell recommended that Massa Walter not be tolduntil after he had eaten his breakfast, " 'case de boy done jes'eased off somewhere an' got scairt to slip back 'fo' it's darkagain, less'n dem road pate rollers cotches 'im." Bell servedthe massa his favorite breakfast--canned peaches in heavycream, hickory-smoked fried ham, scrambled eggs, grits,heated apple butter, and buttermilk biscuits--and waited forhim to ask for his second cup of coffee before speaking."Massa"--she swallowed, "--Massa, Cato ax me to tell youlook like dat boy Noah ain't here dis mawnin'!" The massa setdown his cup, frowning. "Where is he, then? Are you trying totell me he's off drunk or tomcat ting somewhere, and you thinkhe'll slip back today, or are you saying you think he's trying torun?" "All us sayin', Massa," Bell quavered, "is seem like heain't here, an' us done searched eve'ywheres." Massa Waller

studied his coffee cup. "I'll give him until tonight--no, tomorrowmorning--before I take action." "Massa, he a good boy, bornand bred right here on yo' place, an' work good all his life, ain'tnever give you or nobody a minute's trouble" He looked levellyat Bell. "If he's trying to run, he'll be sorry." "Yassuh, Massa."Bell fled to the yard, where she told the others what the massahad said. But no sooner had Cato and the fiddler hurried offtoward the fields than Massa Waller called Bell back andordered the buggy. All day long, as he drove him from onepatient to the next, Kunta soared from exhilaration--as hethought of Noah running--to anguish as he thought of thethorns and the briars and the dogs. And he felt what hope andsuffering Kizzy must be enduring. At that night's huddledgathering, everyone spoke barely above whispers. "Dat boydone lef here. "Fo' now, I done seed it in his eyes," Aunt Sukeysaid. "Well, I knows he ain't no young' un to jes' steal off gitting drunk, no suhl" said Sister Mandy. Noah's mother Adawas hoarse from a day of weeping. "My baby sho' ain't nevertalked to me nothin' 'bout no runnin'! Lawd, y'all reckon massagwine sell 'im?" No one chose to reply. When they returned totheir cabin, Kizzy burst into tears the moment she got inside;Kunta felt helpless and tongue- tied. But without a word. Bellwent over to the table, put her arms around her sobbingdaughter, and pulled her head against her stomach. Tuesdaymorning came, still with no sign of Noah, and Massa Wallerordered Kunta to drive him to the county fc seat, where hewent directly to the Spotsylvania jailhouse. After about hal fanhour, he came out with the sheriff, ordering Kunta brusquely totie the sheriff's horse behind the buggy and then to drive them

home. "We'll be dropping the sheriff off at the Creek Road,"said the massa. "So many niggers runnin' these days, can'thardly keep track--they'd rut her take their chances in thewoods than get sold down South"--The sheriff was talkingfrom when the buggy started rolling. "Since I've had aplantation," said Massa Waller, "I've never sold one of mineunless my rules were broken, and they know that well." "But it'smighty rare niggers appreciate good masters, Doctor, youknow that," said the sheriff. "You say this boy aroundeighteen? Well, I'd guess if he's like most field hands his age,there's fair odds he's tryin' to make it North. " Kunta stiffened."If he was a house nigger, they're generally slicker, fastertalkers, they like to try passin' themselves off as free niggersor tell the road patrollers they're on their master's errands andlost their traveling passes, tryin' to make it to Richmond orsome other big city where they can easier hide among somany niggers and maybe find jobs." The sheriff paused."Besides his mammy on your place, this boy of yours got anyother kin livin' anywheres he might be tryin' to get to?" "Nonethat I know of." "Well, would you happen to know if he's gotsome gal somewhere, because these young bucks get theirsap risin', they'll leave your mule in the field and take off." "Notto my knowledge," said the massa. "But there's a gal on myplace, my cook's young' un she's still fairly young, fifteen orsixteen, if I guess correctly. I don't know if they've been haystacking or not." Kunta nearly quit breathing. "I've known 'emto have pickaninnies at the age of twelve!" the sheriff chortled."Plenty of these young nigger wenches even draw white men,and nigger boys'll do anything!" Through churning outrage,

Kunta heard Massa Waller's abrupt chilliness. "I have the leastpossible personal contact with my slaves, and neither knownor concern myself regarding their personal affairs!" "Yes,yes, of course," said the sheriff quickly. But then the massa'stone eased. "Along your line of thinjdng, though, this boy couldhave slipped off to see some other plantation gal. I don't know,and of course the others wouldn't say if they did. In fact,anything might have happened--some fight, perhaps; he couldbe half dead somewhere. It's even possible that some ofthese slave-stealing poor whites could have grabbed him.That's been going on around here, as you know; even some ofthe more unscrupulous traders engage in it. Again, I don'tknow. But I'm told this is the boy's first time being unaccountedfor. " His general manner now more careful, the sheriff said,"You told me he was born on your place and never traveledmuch?" "I'd guess he wouldn't have any idea how to get evento Richmond, let alone North," said the massa. "Niggersexchange a lot of information, though," the sheriff said. "We'vepicked up some and beat it out of them that they practicallyhad maps in their heads of where they'd been told to run andwhere to hide. A lot of this can be traced to nigger-loving whitepeople like the Quakers and Methodists. But since he ain'tnever been nowhere, |i ain't never tried runnin' before, andain't never give you no other trouble to now, sounds like to mea good bet a couple more nights in the woods might bring himback, scared to death and half starved. A nigger's powerfullymoved by a hungry belly. And that'll save you spending toadvertise in the Gazette or hiring some of these niggercatchers with their dogs to track him. He just don't sound to my

experience like one of them hard, outlaw niggers that'sslipping around in and out of the swamps and woods rightnow, killing people's cattle and hogs like they would rabbits." "Ihope you're right," said Massa Waller, "but whatever the case,he's broken my rules by leaving without permission to beginwith, so I'll be selling him South immediately." Kunta's fistssqueezed the reins so tightly that his nails dug into his palms."Then that's a good twelve to fifteen hundred dollars you've gotrunnin around loose somewhere," said the sheriff. "You'vewritten me his description, I'll sure get it to the county roadpatrollers, and if we pick 'im up--or we hear anything--I'll let youknow right away." Saturday morning after breakfast, Kuntawas currycombing a horse outside the barn when he thoughthe heard Cato's whippoorwill whistle. Cocking his head, heheard it again. He tied the horse quickly to a nearby post andGripped rapidly up the path to the cabin. From its front windowhe could see almost from where the main road intersectedwith the big-house driveway. Inside the big house, he knewthat Cato's call had also alerted Bell and Kizzy. Then he sawthe wagon rolling down the driveway--and with surging alarmrecognized the sheriff at the reins. Merciful Allah, had Noahbeen caught? As he watched the sheriff dismount, Kunta'slong-trained instincts tugged at him to hasten out and providethe visitor's winded horse with water and a rubdown, but it wasas if he were paralyzed where he stood, staring from the cabinwindow, as the sheriff hurried up the big-house front steps twoat a time. Only a few minutes passed before Kunta saw Bellalmost stumbling out the back door. She started running--andKunta was seized with a horrible premonition the instant

before she nearly snatched their cabin door off its hinges. Herface was twisted, tear-streaked. "Sheriff an' massa talkin' toKizzy!" she squealed. The words numbed him. For a momenthe just stared disbelievingly at her, but then violently seizingand shaking her, he demanded, "What he want?" ' Her voicerising, choking, breaking, she managed to tell him that thesheriff was scarcely in the house before the massa had yelledfor Kizzy to come from tidying his room upstairs. When I heardhim holler at her from de kitchen, I flew to git in de drawin'room hallway where I always listens from, but I couldn't makeout nothin' clear 'cept he was mighty mad"--Bell gasped andswallowed. "Den beared massa ringin' my bell, an' I run backto look like I was comin' from de cook house But massa wasa-waitin' in de do' way wid his han' holdin' de knob behin' him.Ain't never seed 'im look like he did at me. He tol' me col' asice to git out'n de house an' stay out 'til I'm sent for!" Bellmoved to the small window, staring at the big house, unable tobelieve that what she had just said had really happened."Lawd Gawd, what in de wori' sheriff want wid my chile?"sheasked incredulously. Kunta's mind was clawing desperatelyfor something to do. Could he rush out to the fields, at least toalert those who were chopping there? But his instincts saidthat anything could happen with him gone. As Bell wentthrough the curtains into their bedroom, beseeching Jesus atthe top of her lungs, he could barely restrain himself fromraging in and yelling that she must see now what he had beentrying to tell her for nearly forty rains about being so gullible,deluded, and deceived about the goodness of the massa--orany other toubob. "Gwine back in dere!" cried Bell suddenly.

She came charging through the curtain and out the door.Kunta watched as she disappeared inside the kitchen. Whatwas she going to do? He ran out after her and peered inthrough the screen door. The kitchen was empty and theinside door was swinging shut. He went inside, silencing thescreen door as it closed, and tiptoed across the kitchen.Standing there with one hand on the door, the other clenched,he strained his ears for the slightest sound--but all he couldhear was his own labored breathing. Then he heard: "Massa?" Bell had called softly. There was no answer. "Massa?" shecalled again, louder, sharply. He heard the drawing room dooropen. "Where my Kizzy, Massa?" "She's in my safekeeping,"he said stonily. "We're not having another one running off." "Ijes' don't under stan you, Massa." Bell spoke so softly thatKunta could hardly hear her. "De chile ain't been out'n yo' yard,hardly." The massa started to say something, then stopped."It's possible you really don't know what she's done," he said."The boy Noah has been captured, but not before severelyknifing the two road patrolmen who challenged a falsetraveling pass he was carrying. After being subdued by force,he finally confessed that the pass had been written not by mebut by your daughter. She has admitted it to the sheriff." Therewas silence for a long, agonizing moment, then Kunta heard ascream and running footsteps. As he whipped open the door.Bell came bolting past him--shoving him aside with the forceof a man--and out the back door. The hall was empty, thedrawing room door shut. He ran out after her, catching up withher at the cabin door. "Massa gon' sell Kizzy, I knows it!" Bellstarted screaming, and inside him something snapped.

"Gwine git 'er!" he choked out. Gripping back toward the bighouse and into the kitchen as fast as he could go, with Bell notfar behind. Wild with fury, he snatched open the inside doorand went charging down the unspeakably forbidden hallway.The massa and the sheriff spun with disbelieving faces as thedrawing room door came jerking open. Kunta halted thereabruptly, his eyes burning with murder. Bell screamed frombehind him, "Where our baby at? We come to git 'er!" Kuntasaw the sheriff's right hand sliding toward his bolstered gun asthe massa seethed, "Get out!" "You niggers can't hear?" Thesheriffs hand was withdrawing the pistol, and Kunta wastensed to plunge for it--just as Bell's voice trembled behindhim "Yassa"--and he felt her desperately pulling his arm. Thenhis feet were moving backward through the doorway--andsuddenly the door was slammed behind them, a key clickingsharply in the lock. As Kunta crouched with his wife in the hall,drowning in his shame, they heard some tense, mutedconversation between the massa and the sheriff... then thesound of feet moving, scuffling faintly... then Kizzy's crying, andthe sound of the front door slamming shut. "Kizzy! Kizzy chile!Lawd Gawd, don't let 'em sell my Kizzy!" As she burst out theback door with Kunta behind her. Bell's screams reachedaway out to where the field hands were, who came racing.Cato arrived in time to see Bell screeching insanely, springingup and down with Kunta bear hugging her to the ground.Massa Waller was descending the front steps ahead of thesheriff, who was hauling Kizzy after him--weeping and jerkingherself backward--at the end of a chain. "Mammy!Maaaaaaamy!" Kizzy screamed. Bell and Kunta leaped up

from the ground and went raging around the side of the houselike two charging lions. The sheriff drew his gun and pointed itstraight at Bell: She stopped in her tracks. She stared atKizzy. Bell tore the question from her throat: "You done disthing dey says?" They all watched Kizzy's agony as herreddened, weeping eyes gave her answer in a mute way--darting imploringly from Bell and Kunta to the sheriff and themassa--but she said nothing. "O my Lawd Gawd!" Bellshrieked. "Massa, please have mercy! She ain't meant to doit! She ain't knowed what she was doin'! Missy Anne de oneteached 'er to write!" Massa Waller spoke glacially. "The lawis the law. She's broken my rules. She's committed a felony.She may have aided in a murder. I'm told one of those whitemen may die." "Ain't her cut de man, Massa! Massa, sheworked for you ever since she big 'enough to carry your slopjar An' I done cooked an' waited on you ban' an' foot over fortyyears, an' he..." gesturing at Kunta, she stuttered, "he donedriv you eve'ywhere you been for near 'bout dat long. Massa,don' all dat count for sump'n?" Massa Waller would not lookdirectly at her. "You were doing your jobs. She's going to besold--that's all there is to it." "Jes' cheap, low-class white folkssplits up families!" shouted Bell. "You ain't dat kin'!" Angrily,Massa Waller gestured to the sheriff, who began to wrenchKizzy roughly toward the wagon. Bell blocked their path. "Densell me an' 'er pappy wider! Don' split us up!" "Get out of theway!" barked the sheriff, roughly shoving her aside. Bellowing,Kunta sprang forward like a leopard, pummeling the sheriff tothe ground with his fists. "Save me, Fa!" Kizzy screamed. Hegrabbed her around the waist and began pulling frantically at

her chain. When the sheriff's pistol butt crashed above his ear,Kunta's head seemed to explode as he crumpled to hisknees. Bell lunged toward the sheriff, but his out flung armthrew her off balance, falling heavily as he dumped Kizzy intothe back of his wagon and snapped a lock on her chain.Leaping nimbly onto the seat, the sheriff lashed the horse,whose forward jerk sent the wagon lurching as Kuntaclambered up. Dazed, head pounding, ignoring the pistol, hewent scrambling after the wagon as it gathered speed. "MissyAnnel... Missy Annnnnnnnnnnne!" Kizzy was screeching it atthe top of her voice. "Missy Annnnnnnne!" Again and again,the screams came; they seemed to hang in the air behind thewagon swiftly rolling toward the main road. When Kunta beganstumbling, gasping for breath, the wagon was a half mileaway; when- he halted, for a long time he stood looking after ituntil the dust had settled and the road stretched empty as faras he could see. The massa turned and walked very quicklywith his head down back into the house, past Bell huddledsobbing by the bottom step. As if Kunta were sleepwalking, hecame Gripping slowly back up the driveway--when an Africanremembrance flashed into his mind, and near the front of thehouse he bent down and started peering around. Determiningthe clearest prints that Kizzy's bare feet had left in the dust,scooping up the double handful containing those footprints, hewent rushing toward the cabin: The ancient forefathers saidthat precious dust kept in some safe place would insureKizzy's return to where she made the footprints. He burstthrough the cabin's open door, his eyes sweeping the roomand falling upon his gourd on a shelf containing his pebbles.

Springing over there, in the instant before opening his cuppedhands to drop in the dirt, suddenly he knew the truth: His Kizzywas gone; she would not return. He would never see his Kizzyagain. His face contorting, Kunta flung his dust toward thecabin's roof. Tears bursting from his eyes, snatching his heavygourd up high over his head, his mouth wide in a soundlessscream, he hurled the gourd down with all his strength, and itshattered against the packed-earth floor, his 662 pebblesrepresenting each month of his 55 rains flying out, ricochetingwildly in all directions.

CHAPTER 84

Weak and dazed, Kizzy lay in the darkness," on some burlapsacks, in the cabin where she had been pushed when themule cart arrived shortly after dusk. She wondered vaguelywhat time it was; it seemed that night had gone on forever.She began tossing and twisting, trying to force herself to thinkof something--anything--that didn't terrify her. Finally, for thehundredth time, she tried to concentrate on figuring out how toget " up Nawth," where she had heard so often that blackpeople could find freedom if they escaped. If she went thewrong way, she might wind up " deep Souf," where peoplesaid mass as and overseers were even worse than MassaWaller. Which way was " nawth"? She didn't know. I'm going toescape anyway, she swore bitterly. It was as if a pin prickedher spine when she heard the first creaking of the cabin'sdoor. Springing upright and backward in the dark, she saw thefigure entering furtively, with a cupped hand shielding a

candle's flame. Above it she recognized the face of the whiteman who had purchased her, and she saw that his other handwas holding up a short-handled whip, cocked ready for use.But it was the glazed leer on the white man's face that frozeher where she stood. "Rather not have to hurt you none," hesaid, the smell of his liquored breath nearly suffocating her.She sensed his intent. He wanted to do with her what Pappydid with Mammy when she heard strange sounds from theircurtained-off room after they thought she was asleep. Hewanted to do what Noah had urged her to do when they hadgone walking down along the fence row and which she almosthad given in to, several times, especially the night before hehad left, but he had frightened her too much when heexclaimed hoarsely, "I wants you wid my baby! " She thoughtthat this white man must be insane to think that she was goingto permit him to do that with her. "Am' got no time to play withyou now!" The white man's words were slurred. Kizzy's eyeswere judging how to bolt past him to flee into the night--but heseemed to read that impulse, moving a little bit sideways, nottaking his gaze off her as he leaned over and tilted the candleto drain its melted wax onto the seat of the cabin's singlebroken chair; then the small flame flickered upright. Inchingslowly backward, Kizzy felt her shoulders brushing the cabin'swall. "Ain't you got sense enough to know I'm your newmassa?" He watched her, grimacing some kind of a smile."You a fair-lookin' wench. Might even set you free, if I like youenough"--When he sprang, seizing Kizzy, she wrenched loose,shrieking, as with an angry curse he brought the whip crackingdown across the back of her neck. "I'll take the hide off you!"

Lunging like a wild woman, Kizzy clawed at his contorted face,but slowly he forced her roughly to the floor. Pushing backupward, she was shoved down again. Then the man was onhis knees beside her, one of his hands choking back herscreams"--Please, Massa, please!"--the other stuffing dirtyburlap sacking into her mouth until she gagged. As she flailedher arms in agony and arched her back to shake him off, hebanged her head against the floor, again, again, again, thenbegan slapping her--more and more excitedly--until Kizzy felther dress being snatched upward, her undergarments beingripped. Frantically thrashing, the sack in her mouth mufflingher cries, she felt his hands fumbling upward between herthighs, finding, fingering her private parts, squeezing andspreading them. Striking her another numbing blow, the manjerked down his suspenders, made motions at his trousers'front. Then came the searing pain as he forced his way intoher, and Kizzy's senses seemed to explode. On and on itwent, until finally she lost consciousness. In the early dawn,Kizzy blinked her eyes open. She was engulfed in shame tofind a young black woman bending over her and sponging herprivate parts gently with a rag and warm, soapy water. WhenKizzy's nose told her that she had also soiled herself, she shuther eyes in embarrassment, soon feeling the woman cleaningher there as well. When Kizzy slitted her eyes open again, shesaw that the woman's face seemed as expressionless as ifshe were washing clothes, as if this were but another of themany tasks she had been called upon to perform in her life.Finally laying a clean towel over Kizzy's loins, she glanced upat Kizzy's face. "Reckon you ain't feel like talkin' none now,"

the woman said quietly, gathering up the dirty rags and herwater pail preparing to leave. Clutching these things in thecrook of one arm, she bent again and used her free hand todraw up a burlap sack to cover most of Kizzy's body. " " Forelong, I bring you sump'n to eat"--she said, and went on out ofthe cabin door. Kizzy lay there feeling as if she weresuspended in midair. She tried to deny to herself that theunspeakable, unthinkable thing had really happened, but thelancing pains of her torn privates reminded her that it had. Shefelt a deep uncleanness, a disgrace that could never beerased. She tried shifting her position, but the pains seemedto spread. Holding her body still, she clutched the sack tightlyabout her, as if somehow to cocoon herself against any moreoutrage, but the pains grew worse. Kizzy's mind raced backacross the past-four days and nights. She could still see herparents' terrified faces, still hear their helpless cries as shewas rushed away. She could still feel herself struggling toescape from the white trader whom the Spotsylvania Countysheriff had turned her over to; she had nearly slipped free afterpleading that she had to relieve herself. Finally they hadreached some small town where--after long, bitterly angryhaggling-the trader at last had sold her to this new massa,who had awaited the nightfall to violate her. Mammy! Pappy! Ifonly screaming for them could reach them--but they didn'teven know where she was. And who knows what might havehappened to them? She knew that Massa Waller would neversell anyone he owned "less'n dey breaks his rules." But intrying to stop the massa from selling her, they must havebroken a dozen of those rules. And Noah, what of Noah?

Somewhere beaten to death? Again, it came back to Kizzyvividly, Noah demanding angrily that to prove her love, shemust use her writing ability to forge a traveling pass for him toshow if he should be seen, stopped, and questioned bypatrollers or any other suspicious whites. She rememberedthe grim determination etched on his face as be pledged toher that once he got up North, with just a little money savedfrom a job he would quickly find, "Gwine steal back here an'slip you Nawth, too, fo' de res' our days togedder." Shesobbed anew. She knew she would never see him again. Orher parents. Unless... Her thoughts leaped with a suddenhope! Missy Anne had sworn since girlhood that when shemarried some handsome, rich young massa, Kizzy alone mustbe her personal maid, later to care for the houseful of children.Was it possible that when she found out Kizzy was gone, shehad gone screaming, ranting, pleading to Massa Waller?Missy Anne could sway him more than anyone else on earth!Could the massa have sent out some men searching for theslave dealer, to learn where he had sold her, to buy her back?But now a new freshet of grief poured from Kizzy. She realizedthat the sheriff knew exactly who the slave dealer was; theywould certainly have traced her by now! She felt even moredesperately lost, even more totally abandoned. Later, whenshe had no more tears left to shed, she lay imploring God todestroy her, if He felt she deserved all this, just because sheloved Noah. Feeling some slickness seeping between herupper legs, Kizzy knew that she was continuing to bleed. Butthe pain had subsided to a throbbing. When the cabin's doorcame creaking open again, Kizzy had sprung up and was

rearing backward against the wall before she realized that itwas the woman. She was carrying a steaming small pot, witha bowl and spoon, and Kizzy slumped back down onto the dirtfloor as the woman put the pot on the table, then spoonedsome food into the bowl, which she placed down alongsideKizzy. Kizzy acted as if she saw neither the food nor thewoman, who squatted beside her and began talking asmatter-of-factly as if they had known each other for years. "I'sede big-house cook. My name Malizy. What your'n?" FinallyKizzy felt stupid not to answer. "It Kizzy, Miss Malizy." Thewoman made an approving grunt. "You sounds well- raised."She glanced at the untouched stew in the bowl. "I reckon youknow you let vittles git cold dey don't do you no good." MissMalizy sounded almost like Sister Mandy or Aunt Sukey.Hesitantly picking up the spoon, Kizzy tasted the stew, thenbegan to eat some of it, slowly. "How of' you is?" asked MissMalizy. "I'se sixteen, ma'am." "Massa boun' for hell jes' sho'she born!" exclaimed Miss Malizy, half under her breath.Looking at Kizzy, she said, "Jes' well's to tell you massa onedem what loves nigger womens, 'specially young'uns like youis. He use to mess wid me, I ain't but roun' nine years older'Tiyou, but he quit after he brung missy here an' made me decook, workin' right dere in de house where she is, thanks beto Gawd!" Miss Malizy grimaced. "Speck you gwine be seem''im in here regular." Seeing Kizzy's hand fly to her mouth, MissMalizy said, "Honey, you jes' well's realize you's a niggerwoman. De kind of white man massa is, you either gives in, orhe gwine make you wish you had, one way or not her An'lemme tell you, dis massa a mean thing if you cross 'im. Fact,

ain't never knowed nobody git mad de way he do. Ever'thingcan be gwine 'long jes' fine, den let jes' anythin' happen datrile 'im," Miss Malizy snapped her fingers, "quick as dat hecan fiy red hot an' ack like he done gone crazy!" Kizzy'sthoughts were racing. Once darkness fell, before he cameagain, she must escape. But it was as if Miss Malizy read hermind. "Don't you even start thinkin' 'bout runnin' nowhere,honey! He jes' have you hunted down wid dem blood dogs, an'you in a worser mess. Jes' calm yo'self. De next fo', five dayshe ain't gon' be here nohow. Him an his of' nigger chickentrainer already done left for one dem big chicken fightshalfway 'crost de state. " Miss Malizy paused. "Massa don'tcare 'bout nothin' much as dem fightin' chickens o' his'n." Shewent on talking nonstop--about how the massa, who hadgrown to adulthood as a po' cracker, bought a twenty-five-centraffle ticket that won him a good fighting rooster, which got himstarted on the road to becoming one of the area's moresuccessful gamecock owners. Kizzy finally interrupted. "Don'the sleep wid his missis?" "Sho' he do!" said Miss Malizy. "Hejes' love womens. You won't never see much o' her 'cause shescairt to death o' 'im, an' she keep real quiet an' stay close.She whole lot younger'n he is; she was jes' fo'teen, same kindof po' cracker he was, when he married 'er an' brung 'er here.But she done found' out he don't care much for her as he dohis chickens"--As Miss Malizy continued talking about themassa, his wife, and his chickens, Kizzy's thoughts driftedaway once again to thoughts of escape. "Gal! Is you payin' metent ion "Yes'm," she replied quickly. Mi&s Malizy's frowneased. "Well, I specks you better, since I'se 'quaintin you wid

where you is!" Briefly she studied Kizzy. "Where you comefrom, anyhow?" Kizzy said from Spotsylvania County, Virginia."Ain't never beared of it! Anyhow, dis here's Caswell County inNorth Ca'liny. " Kizzy's expression showed that she had noidea where that was, though she had often heard of -NorthCarolina, and she had the impression that it was somewherenear Virginia. "Looka here, does you even know massa'sname?" asked Miss Malizy. Kizzy looked blank. "Him's MassaTorn Lea"--She reflected a moment. "Reckon now dat makeyou Kizzy Lea." "My name Kizzy Waller!" Kizzy exclaimed inprotest. Then, with a flash, she remembered that all of this hadhappened to her at the hands of Massa Waller, whose nameshe bore, and she began weeping. "Don't take on so, honey!"exclaimed Miss Malizy. "You sho' knows niggers takeswhoever's dey massa's name. Nigger names don't make nodifference nohow, jes' sump'n to call 'em"--Kizzy said, "Mypappy real name Kunta Kinte. He a African." "You don't say!"Miss Malizy appeared taken aback. "I'se beared my great-gran'daddy was one dem Africans, too! My mammy say hermammy told her he was blacker'n tar, wid scars zigzaggin'down both cheeks. But my mammy never said his name"--Miss Malizy paused. " You know yo' mammy, too? " " Co'se Idoes. My mammy name Bell. She a big-house cook like youis. An' my pappy drive de massa's buggy--leas' he did. " "Youjes' come from being' wid yo' mammy an' pappy both?" MissMalizy couldn't believe it. "Lawd, ain't many us gits to knowboth our folks 'fo' somebody git sol' away!" Sensing that MissMalizy was preparing to leave, suddenly dreading being leftalone again, Kizzy sought a way to extend the conversation.

"You talks a whole lot like my mammy," she offered. MissMalizy seemed startled, then very pleased. "I specks she agood Christian woman like I is." Hesitantly, Kizzy askedsomething that had crossed her mind. "What kin' of work deygwine have me doin' here, Miss Malizy?" Miss Malizy seemedastounded at the question. "What you gon' do?" shedemanded. "Massa ain't tol' you how many niggers here?"Kizzy shook her head. "Honeychile, you makin' zactly five! An'dat's countin' Mingo, de of' nigger dat live down 'mongst dechickens. So it's me cook- in', washin', an' housekeepin', an'Sister Sarah an' Uncle Pompey workin' in de fiel', where yousho' gwine go too---dat you is!" Miss Malizy's brows lifted atthe dismay on Kizzy's face. "What work you done where youwas?" "Cleanin' in de big house, an' helpin' my mammy in dekitchen," Kizzy answered in a faltering voice. "Figgeredsump'n like dat when I see dem soft hands of your'n! Well, yousho' better git ready for some calluses an' corns soon'smassa git back!" Miss Malizy then seemed to feel that sheshould soften a bit. "Po' thing! Listen here to me, you beenused to one dem rich massa's places. But dis here one dempo' crackers what scrabbled an' scraped till he got holt a li'llan' an' built a house dat ain't nothin' but a big front to make'em look better off clan dey is. Plenty crackers like dat roun'here. Dey got a sayin', "Farm a hunnud acres wid fo' niggers."Well, he too tight to buy even dat many. "Co'se, he ain't got buteighty-some acres, an' farmin' jes' 'enough of dat to lay claimto being' a massa. His big thing is his hunnud an' some fightin'chickens dat Mingo nigger helpin' him raise an' train to bet onin fights. Only thing massa spen' any money on is dem

chickens. He always swearin' to missy one day dem chickensgwine see 'em rich. He git drunk an' teller one dese days hegwine buil' her a house so big it have six columns 'crost defront, an' be two stories tall, an' even finer'n de houses o' desereal rich mass as hereabouts what snubs 'em so bad, like deystill depo crackers dey started out! Fact, massa claim hesavin' up for de day he buil' dat fine house. Hmph! Might, forall I know. I know he too tight even to have a stable boy letalone a nigger to drive 'im places like near 'bout all mass ashas. He hitch up his own buggy an' wagon both, saddle hisown boss, an' he drive his self Honey, de only reason i ain't outin de fiel' is missis can't hardly cook water, an' he love to eat."Sides dat, he likes de looks of havin' a house servin' niggerfor when dey guests come. When he git to drinkin' outsomewhere, he love vi ting in guests for dinner, tryin' to put onde dog, an' 'specially if he been winnin' pretty good, bettin' onhis roosters at dem cockfights. But anyhow, he finally had tosee wasn't no way jes' Uncle Pompey an' Sister Sarah couldfarm much as he like to plant, an' he had to git somebodyelse. Dat's how come he bought you"--Miss Malizy paused."You know how much you cost?"

Kizzy said weakly,

"No'm." "Well, I reckon six to seb'n hundred dollars,considerin' de prices I'se heard him say niggers costin' nowdays an' you being' strong an' young, lookin' like a goodbreeder, too, dat'll bring 'im free pickaninnies." With Kizzyagain speechless. Miss Malizy moved closer to the door and

stopped. "Fact, I wouldn't o' been surprised if massa stuckyou in wid one dem stud niggers some rich mass as keeps ondey places an' hires out. But it look like to me he figgerin' onbreedin' you his self CHAPTER 85 The conversation wasshort. "Massa, I gwine have a baby." "Well, what you expectin'me to do about it? I know you better not start playin' sick, tryin'to get out of workin'!" But he did start coming to Kizzy's cabinless often as her belly began to grow. Slaving out under thehot sun, Kizzy went through dizzy spells as well as morningsickness in the course of her painful initiation to fieldwork.Torturous blisters on both her palms would burst, fill with fluidagain, then burst again from their steady friction against therough, heavy handle of her hoe. Chopping along, trying tokeep not too far behind the experienced, short, stout, blackUncle Pompey, and the wiry, light- brown-skinned SisterSarah--both of whom she felt were still deciding what to thinkof her--she would strain to recall everything she had everheard her mammy say about the having of young'uns. She feltshe'd give anything if Bell could be here beside her now.Despite her humiliation at being great with child and having toface her mammy--who had warned repeatedly of the disgracethat could befall her "if'n you keeps messin' roun' wid dat Noahan' winds up too close"--Kizzy knew she'd understand that ithadn't been her fault, and she'd let her know the things sheneeded to know. She could almost hear Bell's voice telling hersadly, as she had so often, what she believed had caused thetragic deaths of both the wife and baby of Massa Waller: "Po'lil thing was jes' built too small to birth dat great big baby!"Was she herself built big enough? Kizzy wondered frantically.

Was there any way to tell? She remembered once when sheand Missy Anne had stood goggle-eyed, watching a cowdeliver a calf, then their whispering that despite whatgrownups told them about storks bringing babies, maybemothers had to squeeze them out through their privates in thesame gruesome way. The older women. Miss Malizy andSister Sarah, seemed to take hardly any notice of her steadilyenlarging belly--and breasts--so Kizzy decided angrily that itwould be as big a waste of time to confide her fears to themas it would to Massa Lea. Certainly he couldn't have been lessconcerned as he rode around the plantation on his horse,yelling threats at anyone he felt wasn't working fast enough.When the baby came--in the winter of 1806--Sister Sarahserved as the midwife. After what seemed an eternity ofmoaning, screaming, feeling as if she were ripping apart,Kizzy lay bathed in sweat, staring in wonder at the wrigglinginfant grinning Sister Sarah was holding up. It was a boy--buthis skin seemed to be almost high-yaller. Seeing Kizzy'salarm, Sister Sarah assured her, "New babies takes leas' amonth to darken to dey full color, honey!" But Kizzy'sapprehension deepened as she examined her baby severaltimes every day; when a full month passed, she knew that thechild's permanent color was going to be at best a pecan-colored brown.

She remembered her mammy's proud boast,

"Ain't nothing but black niggers here on massa's place." Andshe tried not to think about "sasso-borro," the name her

ebony-black father--his mouth curled in scorn--used to Callthose with mulatto skin. She was grateful that they weren'tthere to see--and share--her shame. But she knew that she'dnever be able to hold her head up again even if they neversaw the child, for all anyone had to do was compare her colorand the baby's to know what had happened--and with whom.She thought of Noah and felt even more ashamed. "Dis our to'chance 'fo' I leaves, baby, how come you can't?" she heardhim say again. She wished desperately that she had, that thiswas Noah's baby; at least it would be black. "Gal, what's dematter you ain't happy, great big of' fine chile like dat!" saidMiss Malizy one morning, noticing how sad Kizzy looked andhow awkwardly she was holding the baby, almost at her side,as if she found it hard even to look at her child. In a rush ofunderstanding, Miss Malizy blurted, "Honey, what you lettin'bother you ain't no need to worry 'bout. Don't make nodifference, 'cause dese days an' times don't nobody care,ain't even pay no tent ion It git ting to be near 'bout manymulattoes as it is black niggers like us. It's jes' de way thingsis, dat's all" Miss Malizy's eyes were pleading with Kizzy. "An'you can be sho' massa ain't never gwine claim de chile, not noway at all He jes' see a young' un he glad he ain't had to payfor, dat he gwine stick out in de fields same as you is. So deonly thing for you to feel is dat big, fine baby's your'n, honey--data ll it is to it!" That way of seeing things helped Kizzy tocollect herself, at least somewhat. "But what gwine happen,"she asked, "when sometime or not her missis sho' catch sightdis chile, Miss Malizy?" "She know he ain't no good! I wisht Ihad a penny for every white woman knows dey husbands got

chilluns by niggers. Main thing, I 'speck missis be jealous'cause seem like she ain't able to have none." The next nightMassa Lea came to the cabin--about a month after the babywas born--he bent over the bed and held his candle close tothe face of the sleeping baby. "Hmmmm. Ain't bad-looking.Good-sized, too." With his forefinger, he jiggled one of theclenched, tiny fists and said, turning to Kizzy, "All right. Thisweekend will make enough time off. Monday you go back tothe field." "But Massa, I ought to stay to nuss 'im!" she saidfoolishly. His rage exploded in her ears. "Shut up and do asyou're told! You're through being pampered by some fancyVirginia blue blood Take that pickaninny with you to the field,or I'll keep that baby and sell you out of here so quick yourhead swims!" Scared silly, Kizzy burst into weeping at eventhe thought of being sold away from her child. "Yassuh,Massa!" she cried, cringing. Seeing her crushed submission,his anger quickly abated, but then Kizzy began to sense--withdisbelief--that he had actually come intending to use heragain, even now, with the baby sleeping right beside them."Massa, Massa, it too soon," she pleaded tearfully. "I ain'thealed up' right yet, Massa!" But when he simply ignored her,she struggled only long enough to put out the candle, afterwhich she endured the ordeal quietly, terrified that the babywould awaken. She was relieved that he still seemed to besleeping even when the massa spent himself, and then wasclambering up, preparing to go. In the darkness, as hesnapped his suspenders onto his shoulders, he said, "Well,got to call him something"--Kizzy lay with her breath sucked in.After another moment, he said, "Call him George--that's after

the hardest-working nigger I ever saw." After another pause,the massa continued, as if talking to himself, "George. Yeah.Tomorrow I'll write it in my Bible. Yeah, that's a good name--George!" And he went on out. Kizzy cleaned herself off andthen lay back down, unsure which outrage to be most furiousabout. She had thought earlier of either "Kunta" or "Kinte" asideal names, though uncertain of what the massa's reactionmight be to their uncommon sounds. But she dared not riskigniting his temper with any objection to the name he'dchosen. She thought with a new horror of what her Africanpappy would think of it, knowing what importance he attachedto names. Kizzy remembered how her pappy had told her thatin his homeland, the naming of sons was the most importantthing of all, " 'cause de sons becomes dey families' mens!"She lay thinking of how she had never understood why herpappy had always felt so bitter against the world of whitepeople"--toubob" was his word for them. She thought of Bell'ssaying to her, "You's so lucky it scare me, chile, 'cause youdon' really know what being' a nigger is, an' I hopes to degood Lawd you don' never have to fin' out." Well, she hadfound out--and there seemed no limit to the anguish whiteswere capable of wreaking upon black people. But the worstthing they did, Kunta had said, was to keep them ignorant ofwho they are, to keep them from being fully human. "Dereason yo' pappy took holt of my feelin's from de firs'," hermammy had told her, "was he de proudest black man I everseed!" Before she fell asleep, Kizzy decided that howeverbase her baby's origins, however light his color, whatevername the massa forced upon him, she would never regard

him as other than the grandson of an African. '

CHAPTER 86

Since Uncle Pompey had never said much beyond "How do?"to Kizzy when he saw her in the mornings, she was surprisedand deeply touched when she arrived in the field with her babyon her first day back at work. Uncle Pompey approached hershyly and, touching the brim of his sweatstained straw hat,pointed toward the trees at the edge of the field. "Figgeredyou could put de baby under dere," he said. Not sure what hemeant, Kizzy squinted and saw something beneath one of thetrees. Her eyes were soon glistening with tears, for when shewalked over to it, she saw that it was a little lean-to, its topthatched with freshly cut long grass, thick-stemmed weeds,and green leaves. Gratefully Kizzy spread her clean crocussack upon the sheltered leafy cushion and laid the baby on it.He cried briefly, but with her comforting sounds and pats, soonha was gurgling and inspecting his fingers. Rejoining her twocompanions, who were working in the tobacco, she said,"Sho' 'predates dat, Uncle Pompey." He grunted and choppedfaster, trying to conceal his embarrassment. At intervals Kizzywould hurry over and check on her baby, and about everythree hours, when it began crying, she would sit down and let itnurse at one of her breasts, which were taut with milk. "Yo'baby jes' perkin' us all up, 'cause sho', ain't nothin' else roun'here to pay no tent ion Sister Sarah said a few days later,addressing Kizzy but casting a sly eye at Uncle Pompey,whose return look was as if at some persistent mosquito. By

now, when each workday ended with the setting sun. SisterSarah insisted on carrying the baby as Kizzy took their twohoes for the tired trudge back to slave row, which was nothingmore than four small box- like, one-windowed cabins near alarge chinquapin tree. Usually the early darkness would havefallen by the time Kizzy hurriedly lighted sticks in her smallfireplace to 'cook something from her remaining rations, whichwere issued each Saturday morning by Massa Lea. Eatingquickly, she would lie down on her corn shuck mattress,playing with George but not nursing him until hunger made himstart bawling. Then, encouraging him to drink to his fullest, shewould hold him over her shoulder, rubbing his back to help himburp, and then she would play with him again. She kept themboth awake as late as she could, wanting the baby to sleep aslong as possible before he would awaken for his next nightfeeding. It was during this interim that--twice or three timesweekly--the massa would come to force himself upon her. Hewould always smell of liquor, but she had decided--for thesake of the baby as well as her own--not to try resisting himanymore. Filled with loathing, she would lie cold and still, withher legs apart, as he took of her his grunting pleasure. When itended and he got up, she would keep lying there with her eyesclosed--hearing the dime or sometimes the quarter that hewould always drop on her table--until he left. Kizzy wouldwonder if the missis, too, was lying awake in the big house,which was close enough to be within earshot; what must shethink, how must she feel, when the massa came to their bedstill smelling of another woman? Finally, after nursing Georgetwice again before daybreak, she fell into a deep sleep--just in

time to be roused by Uncle Pompey knocking at the door towake her up. Kizzy ate breakfast and nursed the baby againbefore Sister Sarah arrived to carry him out to one of thefields. There was a separate field for corn, tobacco, andcotton, and Uncle Pompey had by now constructed a littletree- shaded shelter at the edge of each one. When themassa and missis finished their midday meal on Sunday, theyalways left soon after for their weekly buggy ride, and whilethey were gone, slave row's handful of folk would gather roundthe chinquapin tree for an hour of visiting. Now that Kizzy andher son had joined them, Miss Malizy and Sister Sarah wouldpromptly begin their tug-of-war over who would get to hold therestless George. Uncle Pompey, who sat puffing his pipe,seemed to enjoy talking to Kizzy, perhaps because she'dlisten to him with far fewer interruptions and far more respectthan the two older women would. / "Dis place weren't nothin'but jes' woods worth 'bout fifty cents a acre," said Pompeyone afternoon, "when massa got his firs' thirty acres an' hisfirs' nigger name George, same as yo' young' un here. He jes'plain worked dat nigger to death." Seeing Kizzy gasp. UnclePompey halted. "Sump'n de matter?" he asked. "Nawsuh,nothin'!" Kizzy quickly collected herself, and Uncle Pompeycontinued. "When I come here, massa'd done had dat po'nigger a year, cutting' trees, gougin' up stumps, clearin' brushenough to plow an' plant to make his first crop. Den one dayme an' dat nigger was sawin' logs into de very planks in datbig house yonder." Uncle Pompey pointed. "Lawd, I heard dis'culiar sound an' glanced up from my end o' de saw. DisGeorge nigger's eyes was rollin', he grab at his chest, an'

drop down dead--jes' like dat." Kizzy changed the subject."Every since I come here, been hearin' y'all go on 'bout fightin'chickens. Ain't hardly beared 'bout none befo'"--"Well, I'se sho'beared massa say dey fights a-plenty o' 'em in dat Virginia,"said Miss Malizy. "Reckon it jes' wasn't nowhere close whereyou was at." "Don't none us know no whole lot 'bout 'em here,neither," said Uncle Pompey, " 'ceptin' dey's jes some specialkin' of roosters born an' bred to kill one not her an' mensgambles whole lots of money on 'em. " Sister Sarah chimedin. "Onliest somebody could tell you mo' 'bout 'em is datof'Mingo nigger what live down dere wid dem chickens." SeeingKizzy's open-mouthed surprise. Miss Malizy exclaimed, "Donetol' you dat firs' day you got here. You jes' ain't seed 'im yet."She laughed. "And you might not never see 'im!" "I been herefo'teen years," said Sister Sarah, "an' I ain't seed dat niggermon eight, ten times! He jes' rut her be 'mongst chickens clanpeoples! Hmph!" she snorted. "Fact, I specks his mammyhatched him!" While Kizzy joined in the laughter. Sister Sarahleaned toward Miss Malizy, her arms outstretched. "Here,lemme hoi' dat chile awhile." Grudgingly, Miss Malizyrelinquished the baby. "Well, anyhow," she said, "demchickens sho' took massa an' missis from being' raggedy toridin' roun' here puttin' on sich big airs now." She made amimicking grand gesture. "Dat's massa throwin' up his handwhen dey buggy passin' some rich mass as carriages!" Herfinger resembled a butterfly in motion. "Dat's missis'handkerchief aflutter- in' 'til she 'bout to fall out'n de buggy!"Amid the loud guffawing. Miss Malizy needed a while torecover herself. Then, as she reached out to take the baby

back. Sister Sarah snapped, "You wait! I ain't had 'im but aminute!" It delighted Kizzy to see them compete over her child,and to watch Uncle Pompey watching quietly, then beaminginstantly if the baby happened to look his way, when he wouldmake funny faces or movements with his fingers to hold thechild's attention. George was crawling around one Sunday afew months later when he started crying to nurse. Kizzy wasabout to lift him when Miss Malizy said, "Let 'im hoi' on jes' abit, honey. Dat boy big enough to start eatin' sump'n now."Hurrying to her cabin. Miss Malizy returned in a few moments,and they all watched as she used the back of a teaspoon tomash a half teacup of com bread and potlikker into a mush.Then, lifting George onto her ample lap, she spooned a tinyportion into his mouth. They all beamed as he wolfed it downand smacked his lips in eagerness for more. With Georgenow starting to explore on all fours when they were out in thefields, Kizzy tied a length of small rope about his waist to limithis range, but she soon discovered that even within its reach,he was picking up and eating dirt and crawling insects. Theyall agreed that something had to be done. "Since he am' gotto nuss no mo'," Miss Malizy suggested, "seem like if youleaves 'im wid me, I can keep a good eye on 'im whilst you's inde fiel'." Even Sister Sarah thought that made sense, and asmuch as Kizzy hated to, she began delivering George to thebig-house kitchen before she left each morning, thenretrieving him when she returned. She almost wavered abouther decision when George's first recognizable word was"Mi'lize," but soon after he clearly said "Mammy," thrilling Kizzyto the core. Then his next word was "Unka'pomp," which

made the old man look like he'd swallowed the sunshine. Andthat was soon followed by "Sis'sira." At one year, George waswalking without assistance. By fifteen months he was evenromping about, clearly reveling in the sheer joy of being at lastindependent and on his own. Now he seldom permitted any ofthem to hold him, unless he was sleepy or didn't feel well,which was rare, for he was fairly bursting with health andgrowth, thanks in no small part to his daily stuffing by MissMalizy with the best fare that the kitchen could afford. Nowduring Sunday afternoons, as Kizzy and the other three dotingadults carried on their conversation, they feasted their eyes onthe boy waddling around, playing happily alone, with his soonbaggy-wet diapers shortly matching the dirt in color. Georgewas as delighted with tasting a twig as with catching a beetleor with chasing a dragonfly, the yard cat, or the chickens--which he sent clucking off in alarm to find another scratchingplace. One Sunday the three women held their sides inlaughter at the spectacle of the usually somber Uncle Pbmpeyloping awkwardly for short distances trying to get a lightbreeze to lift the kite he had made for the fascinated boy."Lem'me tell you, gal, you don't really know what you seem'yonder," Sister Sarah remarked to Kizzy. " " Po' dat ehilecome here, once Pompey got in his cabin, we wouldn't hardlysee 'im no mo' tilde mornin'. " "De truth!" said Miss Malizy. "Iain't even knowed Pompey had no fun in 'im!" "Well, I know Isho' felt good when he put up dem 1'il shelters for Georgewhen I first brung 'im to de fiel's," said Kizzy. "You feel good!Dat chile doin' us all good!" said Sister Sarah. Uncle Pompeyfurther claimed George's attention when he began telling him

stories at the age of two. With the Sunday sun setting and theevening turning cool, Pompey would build a small, smoky fireof green wood to discourage the mosquitoes as the threewomen would position their chairs around the fire. ThenGeorge would find his most comfortable position to watch themobile face and gesturing hands of Uncle Pompey as he toldof "Br'er Rabbit" and "Br'er Bear," in time drawing upon sucha seeming endless wealth of tales that once Sister Sarah wasmoved to exclaim, "Ain't never dreamt you knowed all demstories!" Uncle Pompey gave her a cryptic glance and said,"Whole heap o' things 'bout me you don't know." Sister Sarah,flouncing her head, affected great disgust. "Hmph! Sho' ain'tnobody tryin' to fin' out!" Uncle Pompey puffed solemnly at hispipe, his crinkled eyes laughing. "Miss Malizy, I gwine saysump'n to you," Kizzy declared one day. "Sister Sarah an'Uncle Pompey always carryin' on like dey gits on each other'snerves. But sometimes I gits de feelin' it's sump'n like dey wayof courtin' one not her"--"Chile, I don't know. I know neither of'em wouldn't never say if it was. But I speck dey jes' makin'some fun to pass de time, data ll You git of' as we is an' ain'tgot yo'self nobody, you done jes' git used to it, since seem likeain't nothin' you can do 'bout it nohow. " Miss Malizy's eyessearched Kizzy before she went on. "We's of', an' dat's dat,but being' young like you, honey, an' ain't got nobody, dat'sdifferent! I'se jes' wished massa'd buy somebody dat y'allcould jes' kin' of nachel git together!" "Yes'm, Miss Malizy, ain'tno need me actin' like I don't think 'bout it neither, 'cause I sho'do." Kizzy paused. She then said what she was certain theyboth knew. "But massa ain't gwine do dat." She felt a flash of

appreciation that none of them had ever mentioned, or evenhinted at, what they all must know still went on between herand the massa; at least they never mentioned it in herpresence. "Since we's talkin' close," she went on, "it was aman I knowed where I come from. I still thinks 'bout him a-plenty. We was gwine git married, but den everything gotmessed up. Fact, dat's how come I got here." Forcing morebrightness into her tone, sensing Miss Malizy's genuinelyaffectionate concern, Kizzy told her how it had been withNoah, ending finally, "I tells myself he jes' steady gwine 'boutlookin' fo' me, an' we's gwine turn up face-to-face somewhereone dese days." Kizzy's expression might have been ofsomeone praying. "If dat was to happen, Miss Malizy, I tell youde truth, I b'lieve neither one us would say nary word. I b'lievewe jes' take one not her hand an' I slip on in here and tell y'allgood-bye, an' git George, an' we leave. I wouldn't even ax orcare whereabouts. Ain't never gwine for git de las' thing hesaid to me. He say, "We spen' de res' our days togedder,baby!" " Kizzy's voice broke and then both she and MissMalizy were weeping, and soon afterward Kizzy went back toher cabin. One Sunday morning, a few weeks later, Georgewas in the big house "helping" Miss Malizy prepare the noonmeal when Sister Sarah invited Kizzy into her cabin for thefirst time since she had come to the Lea plantation. Kizzystared at the much-chinked walls; they were all but coveredwith bunches of dried roots and herbs hanging from pegs andnails, attesting to Sister Sarah's claim that she could supplythe nature cure for nearly any ailment. Pointing to her onlychair, she said, "Set yo'self down, gal." Kizzy sat, and Sister

Sarah- went on, "I gwine tell you sump'n ever' body don't know.My mammy was a Louisiana Cajun woman what teached mehow to tell fortunes good." She studied Kizzy's startled face."You want me to tell your'n?" Instantly Kizzy remembered timeswhen both Uncle Pompey and Miss Malizy had mentioned thatSister Sarah had a gift for fortune-telling. Kizzy heard herselfsaying, "I reckon I would. Sister Sarah. " Squatting on the floor.Sister Sarah drew a large box from under the bed. Removingfrom it a smaller box, she picked out two palmfuls ofmysterious-looking dried objects and slowly turned towardKizzy. Carefully arranging her objects into a symmetricaldesign, she produced a thin, wand like stick from within thebosom of her dress and began vigorously stirring themaround. Bending forward until her forehead actually touchedthe objects on the floor, she seemed to be straining tostraighten back upward when she spoke in an unnaturally hightone, "I hates to tell you what de sperrits says. You ain't nevergwine see yo' mammy an' yo' pappy no mo', leas' ways not indis wort"--Kizzy burst into sobs. Ignoring her entirely. SisterSarah carefully rearranged her objects, then stirred and stirredagain, much longer than before, until Kizzy regained somecontrol and her weeping had diminished. Through misty eyes,she stared in awe as the wand trembled and quivered. ThenSister Sarah began a mumbling that was barely audible: "Look like jes' ain't dis Chile's good-luck time. . . on lies manshe gwine ever love. he had a mighty hard road. an' he loveher, too... but de sperrits done tol' 'im it's debes to know detruth... an' to give up jes' even hopin'.... " Kizzy sprang upright,shrieking, this time highly agitating Sister Sarah. "Shhhhh!

Shhhhh! Shhhhh! Don't 'sturb de sperrits, daughter! SHHHHH!SHHHHH! SHHHHH! " But Kizzy continued to scream, boltingoutside and across into her own cabin and slamming herdoor, as Uncle Pompey's cabin door jerked open and thefaces of Massa and Missis Lea, Miss Malizy, and Georgeappeared abruptly at windows of the big house and itskitchen. Kizzy was thrashing and wailing on her corn shuckmattress when George came bursting in. "Mammy! Mammy!What de matter?" Her face tear-streaked and contorted, shescreamed hysterically at him, "SHUT UP!"

CHAPTER 87

By George's third year, he had begun to demonstrate adetermination to "help" the slave-row grownups. "Lawd, tryin'to carry some water for me, an' can't hardly lif up de bucket!"Miss Malizy said, laughing. And another time: "Dog if he ain'ttoted a stick at a time 'til he fill up my wood box den he rakedde ashes out'n de fireplace! " Proud as Kizzy was, she tookpains not to repeat Miss Malizy's praises to George, whomshe felt was giving her headaches enough already. "Howcome I ain't black like you is. Mammy?" he asked one nightwhen they were alone in the cabin, and gulping, Kizzy said,"Peoples jes' born what color dey is, data ll But not manynights passed before he raised the subject again. "Mammy,who my pappy was? Why ain't I never seed 'im? Where he at?" Kizzy affected a threatening tone: "Jes' shut yo' mouth up!"But hours later, she lay awake beside him, still seeing his hurt,confused expression; and the next morning delivering him to

Miss Malizy, she apologized in a lame way. "I jes' gits frazzled,you ax me so many questions." But she knew that somethingbetter than that had to be told to her highly alert, inquisitiveson, something that he both could understand and wouldaccept. "He tall, an' black as de night, an' didn't hardly neversmile," she offered finally. "He blongst to you same as me,'cept you calls him Gran'pappy!" George seemed interestedand curious to hear more. Telling him that his gran'pappy hadcome on a ship from Africa "to a place my mammy said deycalls " Naplis',"she said that a brother of her Massa Wallerhad brought him to a plantation in Spotsylvania County, but hetried to escape. Uncertain how to soften the next part of thestory, she decided to make it brief: "--an' when he kept onrunnin' 'way, dey chopped off half his foot." A grimace twistedGeorge's small face. "How come dey done dat. Mammy? ""He near 'bout kilt some nigger catchers." "Catchin niggers fo'what?" "Well, niggers dat had runned 'way." "What dey wasrunnin' from?" "From dey white mass as "What de white massas done to 'em?"

In frustration, she shrilled,

"Heish yo' mouf! Git on 'way from me, worryin' me to death!"But George never was silenced for long, any more than hisappetite to know more of his African gran'pappy ever was fullysatisfied. "Where 'bouts is dat Africa, Mammy?"... "Any li'lboys in dat Africa?". . "What my gran'pappy's name wasagain?" Even beyond what she had hoped, George seemedto be building up his own image of his gran'pappy, and--to the

limits of her endurance--Kizzy tried to help it along with talesfrom her own rich store of memories. "Boy, I wish you could o'beared 'im singin' some o' dem African songs to me when webe ridin' in de massa's buggy, an' I was a li'l gal, right roun' deage you is now." Kizzy would find herself smiling as sheremembered with what delight she used to sit on the high,narrow buggy seat alongside her pappy as they went rollingalong the hot, dusty Spotsylvania County roads; how at othertimes she and Kunta would walk hand-in-hand along the fencerow that led to the stream where later she would walk hand-in-hand with Noah.

She said to George,

"Yo' gran'pappy like to tell me things in de African tongue. Likehe call a fiddle a ko, or he call a river Kamby Bolongo, wholelotsa different, funny-soundin' words like dat." She thought howmuch it would please her pappy, wherever he was, for hisgrandson also to know the African words. "Ko!" she saidsharply. "Can you say dat?" "Ko," said George. "All right, youso smart: " Kamby Bolongo'! " George repeated it perfectlythe first time. Sensing that she didn't intend to continue, hedemanded, "Say me some mo', Mammy!" Overwhelmed withlove for him, Kizzy promised him more--later on--and then sheput him, protesting, to bed.

CHAPTER 88

When George's sixth year came--meaning that he must startworking in the fields--Miss Malizy was heartsick to lose his

company in the kitchen, but Kizzy and Sister Sarah rejoiced tobe getting him back at last. From George's first day offieldwork, he seemed to relish it as a new realm of adventure,and their loving eyes followed him as he ran around picking uprocks that might break the point of Uncle Pompey's oncomingplow. He scurried about bringing to each of them a bucket ofcool drinking water that he had trudged to get from the springat the other end of the field. He even "helped" them with thecorn and cotton planting, dropping at least some of the seedsmore or less where they should have gone along the moundedrows. When the three grownups laughed at his clumsy butdetermined efforts to wield a hoe whose handle was longerthan he was, George's own broad smile displayed hischaracteristic good spirits. They had a further laugh whenGeorge insisted to Uncle Pompey that he could plow, and thendiscovered that he wasn't tall enough to hold the plow handlesbut he promptly wrapped his arms around the sides andhollered to the mule, "Git up!" When they finally got back intotheir cabin in the late evenings, Kizzy immediately began thenext chore of cooking them a meal, as hungry as she knewGeorge must be. But one night he proposed that the routinebe changed. "Mammy, you done worked hard all day. Howcome you don't lay down an' res' some 'fo' you cooks?" Hewould even try to order her around if she felt like letting him getaway with it. At times it seemed to Kizzy as if her son wastrying to fill in for a man whom she felt he sensed was missingin both of their lives. George was so independent and self-sufficient for a small boy that now or then when he got a coldor some small injury. Sister Sarah would insist upon all but

smothering him with her herb cures; and Kizzy would finish thejob with a plentiful salving of her love. Sometimes, as theyboth lay before sleeping, he would set Kizzy smiling to herselfwith the fantasies he'd share with her there in the darkness."I'se gwine down dis big road," he whispered one night, "an' Ilooks up, an' I sees dis great big of' bear a-runnin'... seem likehe tailer'n a hoss... an' I hollers, "Mr. Bear! Hey, Mr. Bear! Youjes well's to git ready for me to turn you inside out, cause yousho' ain't gwine hurt my mammy!" " Or sometimes he wouldurge and urge and finally persuade his tired mammy to joinhim in singing some of the songs that he had heard MissMalizy sing when he had spent his days with her in the big-house kitchen. And the little cabin would resound softly withtheir duets: " Oh, Mary, don't 'cha weep, don't 'cha moan! Oh,Mary, don't 'cha weep, don't 'cha moan! "Cause of' Pharaoh'sarmy done got drown-ded! Oh, Mary, don't 'cha weep!"Sometimes when nothing else attracted George within thecabin, the restless six-year-old would stretch out before thefireplace. Whittling a finger-sized stick to a point at one end,which he then charred in the flames to make a sort of pencil,he would then draw on a piece of white pine board the simpleoutline figures of people or animals. Every time he did it, Kizzyall but held her breath, fearing that George would next want tolearn to write or read. But apparently the idea never occurredto him, and Kizzy took great care never to mention writing orreading, which she felt had forever scarred her life. In fact,during all of Kizzy's years on the Lea plantation, she had notonce held a pen or pencil, a book or newspaper, nor had shementioned to anyone that she once read and wrote. When she

thought about it, she would wonder if she still could, shouldshe ever want to, for any reason. Then she would spell out inher head some words she felt she still remembered correctly,and with intense concentration she would mentally picturewhat those words would look like written--not that she wassure what her handwriting would look like anymore.Sometimes she'd be tempted--but still she kept her swornpact with herself never to write again. Far more than shemissed writing or reading, Kizzy felt the absence of newsabout what was happening in the world beyond the plantation.She remembered how her pappy would tell what he had heardand seen when he returned from his trips with Massa Waller.But any outside news was almost a rarity here on this modestand isolated plantation, where the massa rode his own horseand drove his own buggy. This slave row found out what wasgoing on outside only when Massa and Missis Lea hadguests for dinner--sometimes months apart. During one suchdinner on a Sunday afternoon in 1812, Miss Malizy ran downfrom the house to tell them, "Dey's eatin' now an' I got to hurryright back, but dey's talkin' in dere 'bout some new war donestarted up wid dat England! Seem like de En- gland is sendin'whole shiploads of dey so'jers over here at us!" "Ain't sendin''em over here at me!" said Sister Sarah. "Dem's white folksfightin'!" "Where dey fightin' dis war at?" asked UnclePompey, and Miss Malizy said she hadn't heard. "Well," hereplied, "long as it's somewheres up Nnwth an' not nowhereroun' here, don't make me no difference." That night in thecabin, shsrp-eared little George asked Kizzy, "What a war is,Mammy?" She thought a moment before answering. "Well, I

reckon it's whole lots of mens fightin' 'against one not her"Fiahtin' 'bout what?" "Fightin' 'bout anything dey feels like.""We'l what de white folks an' dat England fightin' 'against onenot her 'bout?" "Bov. " 's' a'"' ' rev-r no end to 'splainin' younothin'." A half hour later. Kizzy had to start smiling to herself inthe darkness when George began singing one of MissMalizy's songs, barely audibly, as if just for himself, "Gon' puton my long white robe! Down by de ribber side Down by deribber side Ain't gon' study de war no mo'! " After a very longtime without further news, during another big-house dinner.Miss Malizy reported, "Dey sayin' dem Englands done tooksome city up Nawth dey calls " Detroit. " " Then again, monthslater, she said the massa, missis, and guests were jubilantlydiscussing "some great big Newnited States ship dey's callin''01' Ironsides." Dey's sayin' it done sunk plenty dem Englandships wid its fo'ty-fo' guns! " "Whoowee!" exclaimed UnclePompey. "Dat's 'enough to sink de ark!" Then one Sunday in1814, Miss Malizy had George "helping" her in the kitchenwhen he came flying down to slave row, breathless with amessage: "Miss Malizy say tell y'all dat England's army donewhupped five thou san Newnited States so'jers, an' done burntup both dat Capitol an' de White House." "Lawd, where datat?" said Kizzy. "In dat Washington Deecee," said UnclePompey. "Dat's a fur piece from here." "Jes' long as deykeeps killin' an' biirnin' one not her 'stead of us!" exclaimedSister Sarah. Then during a dinner later that year. Miss Malizycame hurrying to tell them, "Be dog if dey ain't all in dere a-singin' sump'n 'bout dem Englands' ships shootin' at some bigfort near roun' Baltimore." And Miss Malizy half talked and half

sang what she bad heard. Later that afternoon, there was anodd noise outside, and the grownups hurried to open theircabin doors and stood astonished: George had stuck a longturkey feather through his hair and was high-stepping along,banging a stick against a dried gourd and singing loudly hisown version of what he had overheard from Miss Malizy: "Oh,hey, can you see by dat dawn early light... an' dem rockets' redglare... oh, dat star spangle banner wavin'... oh, de lan' o' defree, an' de home o' de brave" Within another year the boy'sgift for mimicry had become slave row's favoriteentertainment, and one of George's most popular requestswas for his impression of Massa Lea. First making sure thatthe massa was nowhere near, then slitting his eyes andgrimacing, George drawled angrily, "Less'n you niggers pickdis fiel' o' cotton clean 'fo' datsun set, y'all ain't gon' git no morations to eat!" Shaking with laughter, the adults exclaimedamong themselves, "Is you ever seed anything like dat young'un. "I sho' ain't!"... "He jes' a caution!" George needed but abrief observation of anyone to mock them in a highly comicalway--including one big-house dinner guest, a white preacher,whom the massa had taken afterward to preach briefly to theslaves down by the chinquapin tree. And when George caughthis first good glimpse of the mysterious old Mingo who trainedthe massa's fighting game fowl George was soon apingperfectly the old man's peculiar hitching gait. Catching twosquawking barnyard chickens and holding them tightly by theirlegs, he thrust them rapidly back and forth as if they weremenacing each other while he supplied their dialogue: "Big of'ugly buzzard-lookin' rascal, I'm gon' scratch yo' eyes out!" to

which the second chicken replied scornfully, "You ain't nothin'but halfa mouthful o' feathers!" The following Saturdaymorning, as Massa Lea routinely distributed the slave row'sweekly rations, Kizzy, Sister Sarah, Miss Malizy, and UnclePompey were standing dutifully before their cabin doors toreceive their share when George came tearing around acorner chasing a rat, then screeched to a stop, having onlynarrowly missed colliding with the massa. Massa Lea, halfamused affected a gruff tone: "What do you do to earn yourrations around here, boy?" The four grownups all butcollapsed as nine-year-old George, squaring his shouldersconfidently and looking he massa straight in the eye,declared, "I works in yo' fields an' I preaches, Massa!"Astounded, Massa Lee said, "Well, let's hear you preach,then!" With five pairs of eyes upon him, George took a stepbackward and announced, "Dis dat white preacher you brungdown here, Massa"--and suddenly he was flailing his armsand ranting, "If you specks Uncle Pompey done took massa'shog, tell massa! If you sees Miss Malizy takin' missis' flour, tellmissis! "Cause if y'all's dat kin' o' good niggers, an' doin' wellby yo' good massa an' missis, den when y'all die, y'all mightgit into de kitchen of heab'n!" Massa Lea was doubled overwith laughter even before George finished--whereupon,flashing his strong white teeth, the boy launched into one ofMiss Malizy's favorite songs, "It's me, it's me, it's me, 0 Lawd,a-standin' in de need o' prayer! Not my mammy, not my pappy,but it's me, O Lawd, a-standin' in de need o' prayer! Not depreacher, not de deacon, but me, 0 Lawd, a-standin' in deneed o' prayer!" None of the adults had ever seen Massa Lea

laugh so hard. Obviously captivated, he clapped Georgeacross the shoulders. "Boy, you preach around here anytimeyou want to!" Leaving the basket of rations for them to divideamong themselves, the massa went off back toward the bighouse with his shoulders shaking, glancing back over hisshoulder at George, who stood there happily grinning. Withinweeks that summer, Massa Lea returned from a trip bringingtwo long peacock plumes. Sending Miss Malizy out to thefields to get George, he carefully instructed the boy how hewanted the plumes waved gently back and forth behind theguests he was inviting for dinner on the following Sundayafternoon. "Jes' puttin' on airs, tryin' to act like dey's rich whitefolks!"scoffed Miss Malizy, after she had given Kizzy MissisLea's instructions that the boy must come to the big housescrubbed thoroughly and with his clothes freshly washed,starched, and ironed. George was so excited about his newrole, and about all the attention that was being paid to him--even by the massa and missis--that he could scarcely containhimself. The guests were still in the big house when MissMalizy slipped from the kitchen and ran to slave row, no longerable to keep from reporting to her anxiously awaitingaudience. "Lemme tell y'all, dat young' un too much!" Then shedescribed George waving the peacock plumes, "a-twisting hiswrists an' bendin' his self back an' forth, puttin on mo' airs clanmassa an' missis! An' after dessert, massa was pourin' dewine, when seem like de idea jes' hit 'im, an' he say, "Hey,boy, let's hear some preachin'!" An' I declares I b'lieves datyoung' un been practicin'! "Cause quick as dat he ax massafor some book to be his Bible, an' massa got 'im one. Lawd!

Dat young' un jumped on missis' prettiest 'broidered footstool!Chile, he lit up dat dinin' room preachin'! Den ain't nobody ax'im, he commence to singin' his head off. Dat was when I jes'run out!" She fled back to the big house, leaving Kizzy, SisterSarah, and Uncle Pompey wagging their heads and grinningin incredulous pride. George had been such a success thatMissis Lea began returning from her and the massa's Sundayafternoon buggy rides telling Miss Malizy that previous dinnerguests whom they had met always asked about George. Aftera while the usually withdrawn Missis Lea even began toexpress her own fondness for him, "an' Lawd knows, she ain'tnever liked no nigger!" exclaimed Miss Malizy. GraduallyMissis Lea began finding chores for George to do in oraround the big house, until by his eleventh year it seemed toKizzy that he spent hardly half of his time out with them in thefields anymore. And because waving his plumes at everydinner kept George in the dining room hearing the whitepeople's conversation, he began picking up more news thanMiss Malizy had ever been able to with her having to keeprunning back and forth between the dining room and thekitchen. Soon after the dinner guests left, George wouldproudly tell all he had heard to the waiting ears in slave row.They were astonished to hear how one guest had said that"roun' 'bout three thou san free niggers from lots o' differentplaces held a big meetin' in dat Philadelphia. Dis white mansay dem niggers sent some res'lution to dat Pres'dentMadison dat both slave an' free niggers done helped build discountry, well as to help fight all its wars, an' de NewnitedStates ain't what it claim to be less'n niggers shares in all its

blessin's." And George added, "Massa say any fool can seefree niggers ought to be run out'n de country!" Georgereported that during a later dinner "dem white folks was somad dey turned red" in discussing recent news of huge slaverevolts in the West Indies. "Lawd, y'all ought to o' beared 'emgwine on in dere 'bout ship sailors tellin' dat Wes' Indian slaveniggers is burnin' crops an' build- in's, even beatin' an'chopping' up an' hangin' white folks dat was dey mass asAfter subsequent dinners, George reported that a new ten-mile-an-hour speed record had been achieved by a six-horse"Concord Coach" between Boston and New York City,including rest stops; that "a Massa Robert Fulton's newpaddle-wheel steamboat done crost some "Lantic Oceaninside o' twelve days!" Later, a dinner guest had described ashowboat sensation. "Bes' I could git it, dey calls it 'deminstrels'--sound' like to me he say white mens blackin' deyfaces wid burnt corks an' singin' an' dancin' like niggers."Another Sunday dinner's conversation concerned Indians,George said. "One dem mens said de Cherokees is takin' upsump'n like eighty million acres de white mens needs. He sayde gubmint would o' took care dem Injuns long 'fo' now ifwasn't for some interferin' big white mens, 'specially two nameof Massa Davy Crockett an' Massa Daniel Webster." OneSunday in 1818, George reported "sump'n dem guests wascallin' de ' " Merican Colonize Society' tryin' to send shiploadso' free niggers off to a "Liberia' somewheres in dat Africa. Dewhite folks was a-laughin' 'bout de free niggers being' tol' datLiberia got bacon trees, wid de slices hangin' down likeleaves, an' 'lasses trees you jes' cuts to drain out all you can

drink!" George said, "Massa-swear far's he concerned, deycan't put dem free niggers on ships fas' enough!" "Hmph!"snorted Sister Sarah. "I sho' wouldn't go to no Africa wid alldem niggers up in trees wid monkeys"--"Where you git dat at?" demanded Kizzy sharply. "My pappy come from Africa, an'he sho' ain't never been in no trees!" Indignantly, Sister Sarahspluttered, taken aback, "Well, ever' body grow up hearin'dat!" "Don't make it right," said Uncle Pompey, casting her asidewise glance. "Ain't no ship take you nohow, you ain't nofree nigger." "Well, I wouldn't go if I was!" snapped SisterSarah, flouncing her head and squirting an amber stream ofsnuff into the dust, annoyed now at both Uncle Pompey andKizzy, whom she made a point of not bidding goodnight whenthe little gathering retired to their cabins. Kizzy, in turn, was noless seething at Sister Sarah's demeaning implication abouther wise, stiffly dignified father and his beloved Africanhomeland. She was surprised and pleased to discover thateven George was irritated at what he felt was ridicule of hisAfrican gran'pappy. Though he seemed reluctant to sayanything, he couldn't help himself. But when he finally did, shesaw his concern about seeming disrespectful. "Mammy, jes'seem like Sister Sarah maybe talk what ain't so, don't she?""Dat de truth!" Kizzy emphatically agreed. George sat quietlyfor a while before he spoke again. "Mammy," he saidhesitantly, "is it maybe any li'l mo' you could tell me 'bout 'im?"Kizzy felt a flooding of remorse that during the previous wintershe had gotten so exasperated with George's unendingquestions one night that she had forbidden him to questionher any further about his grandfather. She said softly now,

"Whole lot o' times I done tried to scrape in my min' if it'ssump'n 'bout yo' gran'pappy I ain't tol' you, an' seem like jes'ain't no mo'"--She paused. "I knows you don't for git nothin'--but I tell you again any part of it if you says so." George wasagain quiet for a moment. "Mammy," he said, "one time youtol' me gran'pappy give you de feelin' dat de'main thing hekep' on his mind was tellin' you dem Africar things"--"Yeah, itsho' seem like dat, plenty time," Kizzy said reflectively.

After another silence, George said,

"Mammy, I been thinkin'. Same as you done fo' me, I gwine tellmy chilluns " bout gran'pappy. " Kizzy smiled, it being sotypical of her singular son to be discussing at twelve hischildren of the future. As George's favor continued to rise withthe massa and the missis, he was permitted increasingliberties without their ever really having to grant them. Nowand then, especially during Sunday afternoons when they tookbuggy rides, he would go wandering off somewhere on hisown, sometimes for hours, leaving the slave-row adults talkingamong themselves, as he curiously explored every corner ofthe Lea plantation. One such Sunday it was nearly dusk whenhe returned and told Kizzy that he had spent the afternoonvisiting with the old man who took care of the massa's fightingchickens. "I he'ped him catch a big of' rooster dat got loose,an' after dat me an' de of' man got to talkin'. He don't seem alldat 'culiar to me, like y'all says. Mammy. An' I ain't never seensich chickens! It's roosters he said ain't even grown yet jes' a-crowin' an jumpin' in dey pens, tryin' to git at one not her to

fight! 01' man let me pick some grass an' feed 'em, an' I did.He tol' me he take mo' pains raisin' dem chickens clan mos'mammies does raisin' dey babies!" Kizzy's hackles rose a bitat that but she made no response, half amused at her son'sbeing so excited about some chickens. "He showed me howhe rub dey backs an' necks an' legs, to help 'em fight debes!""You better stay 'way from down dere, boy!" she cautioned."You know massa don't 'low nobody but datof' man down deremessin' wid dem chickens!" "Uncle Mingo say he gwine axmassa to let me come down dere an' help 'im feed demchickens!" On their way out to the field the next morning, Kizzytold Sister Sarah of George's latest adventure. Sarah walkedon in thoughtful silence. Then she said, "I know you don'thardly want me tellin' you no mo' fortunes, but I'm gwine tell youjes' a li'l 'bout dat George, anyhow." She paused. "He ain'tnever gwine be what nobody would call no ordinary nigger! Healways gwine keep git ting into sump'n new an' different jes'long as he draw breath."

CHAPTER 89

"He act like he well-raised, an' he seem like he handy,Massa," said Uncle Mingo, concluding his description of theboy who lived up on slave row but whose name he hadneglected to ask. When Massa Lea immediately agreed togive him a tryout, Mingo was greatly pleased--since he hadbeen wanting a helper for several years--but not reallysurprised. He was well aware that the massa was concernedabout his gamecock trainer's advancing age and uncertain

health; for the past five or six months he had fallen prey toincreasingly frequent spells of bad coughing. He also knewthat the massa's efforts to buy a promising young slaveapprentice trainer had come to nought among the area's othergamecock owners, who were quite naturally disinclined tohelp him out. "If I had any boy showing any signs of ability," themassa told him one had said, "you got to have more sensethan to think I'd sell him. With that old Mingo of yours traininghim, five or ten years from now I'd see him helping you beatme!" But the likeliest reason for Massa Lea's quick approval,Mingo knew, was that Caswell County's annual coekfightingseason would be opening shortly with the big New Year"main" fight, and if the boy simply fed the younger birds,Mingo would be able to spend that much more timeconditioning and training the freshly matured two-year-oldsthat soon would be brought in from their open range walks Onthe morning of George's first day on the job, Mingo showedhim how to feed the scores of cockerels that were kept inseveral pens, each containing young birds of roughly thesame age and size. Seeing that the boy performed that trialtask acceptably, the old man next let him feed the morematured "stags," not quite a year old but already trying to fighteach other from their triangular pens within the zigs and zagsof a split-rail fence. Through the days that followed, Mingokept George practically on the run, feeding the birds theircracked corn, giving them clean grit, oyster shell, andcharcoal, and changing the sweet spring water in theirdrinking tins three times daily. George had never dreamedthat he could fee! awe for chickens-especially the stags, which

were starting to grow spurs and to develop bright feathercolors as they strutted fearlessly about with their lustrous eyesflashing defiance. If he was away from Uncle Mingo'simmediate scrutiny, sometimes George would laugh aloud athow some of the stags would suddenly rear back their headsand crow awkwardly and throatily, as if they were trying tocompete with the frequent raucous cries of Mingo's six- orseven-year-old roosters--each bearing the scars of many pastbattles--that Uncle Mingo called catch cocks and always fedhimself. George pictured himself as one of the stags andUncle Mingo as one of the old roosters. At least once everyday, when Massa Lea came riding on his horse down thesandy road into -the gamecock training area, George wouldmake himself as inconspicuous as possible, having quicklysensed how much chillier the massa was acting toward him.George had heard Miss Malizy saying that the massa didn'teven permit the missis to come down where his chickenswere, but she had indignantly assured him that was the lastthing she'd want to do. The massa and Mingo would gowalking around, inspecting the pens o g me owl, v. ith Mingoalways keeping exactly one step behind, close enough to hearand respond to whatever the massa said between thecrowings of the scarred old catch cock roosters. Georgenoticed that the massa spoke almost eompanionably withUncle Mingo, in sharp contrast to his brusque and coldmanner with Uncle Pompey, Sister Sarah, and his mammy,who were only field hands. Sometimes when their inspectiontour brought them close enough to wherever George wasworking, he would then overhear what they were saying. "I

figure to fight thirty cocks this season, Mingo, so we've got tobring in around sixty or more from the range walk said themassa one day. "Yassuh, Massa. By de time we culls 'em out,we oughta have a good fo ty birds dai'il train good." George'shead became more and more filled with questions every day,but he had the feeling it would be best not to ask Uncle Mingoanything he didn't have to. Mingo scored it as a point in theboy's favor that he could keep from talking too much, sincewise game cockers kept many secrets to themselves. Mingo'ssmall, quick, deeply squinting eyes, meanwhile, missed nodetail of how George performed his work. Deliberately hegave his orders briefly and then quickly walked away, to testhow quickly and well the boy would grasp and rememberinstructions; Mingo was pleased that George seemed to needto be told most things only once. After a while, Mingo toldMassa Lea that he approved of George's care and attentionto the game fowl--but he carefully qualified himself:"Leas'ways far as I been able to tell in jes' dis little bit o' time,Massa." Mingo was totally unprepared for Massa Lea's reply:"I've been thinking you need that boy down here all the time.Your cabin's not big enough, so you and him put up a shacksomewhere so he'll be handy to you all the time." Mingo wasappalled at the prospect of anyone's sudden and totalinvasion of the privacy that only he and the game- fowl hadshared for over twenty years, but he wasn't about to voiceopenly any disagreement. After the massa had left, he spoketo George in a sour tone. "Massa say I needs you down hereall de time. I reckon he must know sump'n I don't." "Yassuh,"said George, struggling to keep his expression blank. "But

where I gwine stay at. Uncle Mingo?" "We got to buil' you ashack." As much as he enjoyed the gamecocks and UncleMingo, George knew this would mean the end of his enjoyabletimes in the big house, waving the peacock plumes andpreaching for the massa and the missis and their guests.Even Missis Lea had just begun to show that she'd taken aliking to him. And he thought of the good things he wouldn't getto eat from Miss Malizy in the kitchen anymore. But the worstpart about leaving slave row was going to be breaking thenews to his mammy. Kizzy was soaking her tired feet in awash pan full of hot water when George came in, his faceunusually somber. "Mammy, sump'n I got to tell you." "Well,tired as I is, ehoppin' all day long, I don't want to hear no mo''bout dem chickens, tell you dat!" "Well, ain't zackly dat." Hetook a deep breath. "Mammy, massa done tol' me an' UncleMingo to buil' a shack an' move me down dere." Kizzy sentsome of the water splattering out of the pan as she leaped up,seemingly ready to spring on George. "Move you fo' what?What you can't ido stayin' up here where you always been?""Weren't my doin', Mammy! It was massa!" He stepped backfrom the fury on her face, voice rising to a high- pitched cry. "Iain't wantin' to leave you, Mammy!" "You ain't of' enough to bemovin' nowhere! I bet it's datof' Mingo nigger put massa up toit!" "No'm, he didn't. Mammy! "Cause I can tell he don't like itneither! He don't like nobody roun' him all de time. He donetol' me he rut her be by his self George wished he could thinkof something to say that would calm her down. "Massa feellike he being' good to me. Mammy. He treat Uncle Mingo an'me nice, ain't like he acts to fiel' hands"--Too late, he gulped

sickly, remembering that his mammy was a field hand.Jealousy and bitterness twisted her face as she grabbedGeorge and shook him like a rag, screaming, "Massa don'tcare nothin' 'bout you. He may be yo' pappy, but he don't carenothin' 'bout nobody but dem chickens!" She was almost asstunned as he was by what she had said. "It's true! An' jes' wellyou know it 'fo' you's figgerin' he doin' you sich favors! Onlything massa wants is you's helpin' datof' crazy nigger takecare his chickens dat he figger gwine make him rich!" Georgestood dumfounded. She went pummeling at George with bothfists. "Well, what you hangin' on roun' here fo'?" Whirling, shesnatched up his few items of clothing and flung them towardhim. "G'wan! Git out'n dis cabin!" George stood there as if hehad been pole axed. Feeling her tears flooding up and spillingout, Kizzy ran from the cabin and went bolting across to MissMalizy's. George's own tears trickled down his face. After awhile, unsure what else to do, he stuffed his few pieces ofclothing into a sack and went stumbling back down the road tothe gamecock area. He slept near one of the stag pens, usinghis sack for his pillow. In the predawn, the early-rising Mingocame upon him asleep there and guessed what hadhappened. Throughout the day, he went out of his way to begentle with the boy, who went about his tasks silent andwithdrawn. During their two days of building the tiny shack,Mingo began speaking to him as if he had only just now reallybecome aware of George's presence. "Yo' life got to be desechickens, tildey's like yo' family, boy," he said abruptly onemorning--that being the foremost thing that he wanted to plantin his mind. But George made no response. He couldn't think

of anything but what his mother had told him. His massa washis pappy. His pappy was his massa. He couldn't deal with iteither way. When the boy still said nothing, Mingo spokeagain. "I knows dem niggers up yonder thinks I'se peculiar"--He hesitated. "I reckon I is." Now he fell silent. Georgerealized that Uncle Mingo expected him to respond. But hecouldn't admit that that was exactly what he had heard aboutthe old man. So he asked a question that had been on hismind since the first day he came to visit. "Uncle Mingo, howcome dese chickens ain't like de rest?" "You's talkin' 'bouttame chickens ain't fit for nothin' 'cept eatin'," said UncleMingo scornfully. "Dese here birds near 'bout same as deywas back in dem jungles massa say dey come from in ancienttimes. Pact, I b'leeves you stick one dese cocks in de jungle,he jes' fight to take over de hens an' kill any other roosters jes'like he ain't never left." George had other questions he'd beensaving up to ask, but he hardly got the chance to open hismouth once Uncle Mingo got going. Any game cockerel thatcrowed before reaching the stag stage, he said, shouldpromptly have its neck wrung, for crowing too early was a suresignal of cowardice later on. "De true birds come out'n de eggwid de fightin' already in dey blood from dey gran'daddies andgreat-gran'daddies. Massa say 'way back, a man an' hisgame chickens was like a man an' his dogs is now. But desebirds got mo' fightin' in 'em clan you fin' in dogs, or bulls, orbears, or 'coons, or whole lots of mensi Massa say it's all deway up to kings an' pres' dents fights game birds 'cause it'sde greatest sport dey is." Uncle Mingo noticed George staringat the latticework of small, livid scars on his black hands,

wrists, and forearms. Going over to his cabin, Mingo returnedshortly with a pair of curving steei spurs that tapered to needlesharpness. "De day you starts to handlin' birds, yo' hands gon'be lookin' like mine, less'n you's mighty careful," said UncleMingo, and George was thrilled that the old man seemed toconsider it possible that he might put spurs on the massa'sgame fowl one day. Through the following weeks, though, longintervals would pass when Uncle Mingo wouldn't permit muchconversation, for it had been years since he had talked withanyone except for the massa and the game chickens But themore he began to get used to having George aroundandthinking of the boy as his assistant--the oftener he wouldbreak his silence to address him, almost always abruptly,about something he felt would help George to understand thatonly the most superbly bred, conditioned, and trained gamefowl could consistently win fights and money for Massa Lea."Massa don't fear no man in de cockpit," Uncle Mingo told himone night. "Fact, he love to match up 'against dem real richmass as dat can 'ford dem flocks o' much as a thousand birdsso dey can pick out maybe dey bes' hundred to fight wid ever'year. You see we ain't got no great big flock, but massa stillwin plenty bettin' 'against dem rich ones. Dey don't like itcause he done come up in de world from startin' out as a po'cracker. But wid 'enough real fine birds an' 'enough luck,massa could git to be jes' big an rich as dey is"--Uncle Mingosquinted at George. "You hear me, boy? Whole lots ofpeoples ain't realize how much money can be winned in cockfighting I knows one thing, if somebody was to offer me ahunnud-acre cotton or tobacco field, or a real good fightin'

cock, I take de bird every time. Dat's how massa feel, too.Dat's how come he ain't put his money in no whole big lot ofland or ownin' no big passel p' niggers." By the time Georgeturned fourteen, he began his Sun- days off by visiting with hisslave-row family, which he felt included Miss Malizy, SisterSarah, and Uncle Pompey no less than his own mammy. Evenafter all this time, he would have to reassure her that heharbored no ill will over the way she told him about his father.But he still thought a lot about his pappy, though he neverdiscussed it with anyone, least of all the massa. Everyone onslave row by now was openly awed by his new status, thoughthey tried to seem as if they weren't. "I diapered yo' messybehind, an' you jes' let me catch you puttin' on any airs, I stillbeat it in a minute!" exclaimed Sister Sarah with affectionatemock ferocity one Sunday morning. George grinned. "No'm,Sister Sarah, ain't got no airs." But they were all consumedwith curiosity about the mysterious things that took place downin the forbidden area where he lived with the gamecocks.George told them only things of a routine nature. He said hehad seen gamecocks kill a rat, drive off a cat, even attack afox. But the game hens could be as bad-tempered as theroosters, he told them, and sometimes even crowed, like theroosters. He said that the massa was vigilant againsttrespassers because of the high prices one could get for eventhe stolen eggs of championship birds, not to mention for thebirds themselves, which thieves could easily take into anotherstate and sell--or even fight as their own. When George saidthat Uncle Mingo had spoken of as much as three thousanddollars having been paid for one bird by the very rich game

cocking Massa Jewett, Miss Malizy exclaimed, "Lawd, couldo' bought three-four niggers for less'n dat chicken!" After hehad talked with them at length, George would begin to' growrestless and fidgety by early Sunday afternoon. And soon hewould go hurrying back down the sandy road to his chickens.Slowing down as he passed their pens along the road, hewould pluck fresh tender green grass, drop a handful into eachone, and sometimes stand awhile, enjoying the stags'contented gluck, gluck, gluck as they gobbled it down. About ayear old now, they were maturing into glossy full feather, withfire in their eyes, and entering a stage of sudden explosivecrowing and vicious flurrying efforts to get at each other. "Dequicker de better we gits 'em out to de range walks to startmatin'!" Uncle Mingo had said not long ago. George knew thatwould happen when the fully matured roosters already out onthe range walks would be brought in to be conditioned andtrained for the coming cock fighting season. After visiting withthe stags, George would usually spend the rest of hisafternoon off wandering farther down the road into the pinegroves where the range walks were. Occasionally he caught aglimpse of one of the fully grown birds there ruling a covey ofhens in total liberty. Grass, seeds, grasshoppers, and otherinsects, he knew, were plentiful there, along with good gravelfor their craws and as much sweet, fresh water as they wantedfrom the grove's several natural springs. One chilly morning inearly November, when Massa Lea arrived in the mule cartUncle Mingo and George were waiting with the crowing,viciously pecking stags already collected in covered wickerbaskets. After loading them into the Cart, George helped

Uncle Mingo catch his favorite old scarred, squawkingcatcheock. "He's just like you, Mingo," said Massa Lea with alaugh. "Done all his fightin' an' breedin' in his young days. Fitfor nothin' but to eat and crow now!"

Grinning, Uncle Mingo said,

"I ain't hardly even crowin' no mo' now, Massa." Since Georgewas as much in awe of Uncle Mingo as he was afraid of themassa, he was happy to see them both in such rare goodspirits. Then the three of them climbed onto the mule cartUncle Mingo seated alongside the massa holding his oldcatcheock, and George balancing himself in the back behindthe baskets. Finally Massa Lea stopped the cart deep in thepine grove. He and Uncle Mingo cocked their heads, listeningcarefully. Then Mingo spoke softly. "I hears 'em back in dere!"Abruptly puffing his cheeks, he blew hard on the head of theold catcheock, which promptly crowed vigorously. Withinseconds came a loud crowing from among the trees, andagain the old catehcock rooster crowed, its hackles rising.Then goose pimples broke out over George when he saw themagnificent gamecock that came bursting from the edge ofthe grove. Iridescent feathers were bristled high over the solidbody; the glossy tail feathers were arched. A covey of aboutnine hens came hurrying up nervously, scratching andclucking, as the range walk cock powerfully beat its wings andgave a shattering crow, jerking its head about, looking for theintruder. Massa Lea spoke in a low tone. "Let him see thecatch- cock, Mingo!" Uncle Mingo hoisted it high, and the

range walk cock seemed almost to explode into the airstraight after the old rooster. Massa Lea moved swiftly,grabbing the thrashing range walk cock in flight, deftlyavoiding the wickedly long natural spurs that George glimpsedas the massa thrust it into a basket and closed the top. "Whatyou gawkin' for, boy? Loose one dem stags!" barked UncleMingo, as if George had done it before. He fumbled open thenearest basket, and the released stag napped out beyond themule cart and to the ground. After no more than a moment'shesitation, it flapped its wings, crowed loudly, dropped onewing, and went strutting stiffly around one hen. Then the newcock o' the walk started chasing all the other hens back intothe pine grove. Twenty-eight mature two-year-olds had beenreplaced with year-old stags when the mule cart returned justbefore dusk. After doing it all over again to get thirty-two morethe next day, George felt he had been retrieving gamecocksfrom range walks all his life. He now busily fed and wateredthe sixty cocks. When they weren't eating, it seemed to him,they were crowing and pecking angrily at the sides of theirpens, constructed so as to prevent their seeing each other,which would have caused some of them to get injured in theirviolent efforts to fight. With wonder, George beheld thesemajestically wild, vicious, and beautiful birds. They embodiedeverything that Uncle Mingo ever had told him about theirancient bloodlines of courage, about how both their physicaldesign and their instincts made them ready to fight any othergamecock to the death anytime, anywhere. The massabelieved in training twice as many birds as he planned to fightduring the season. "Some birds jes' don't never pink up an'

feed an' work like de rest," Uncle Mingo explained to George,"an' dem what don't we's gwine to cull out." Massa Lea beganto arrive earlier than before to work along with Uncle Mingo,studying the sixty birds, one by one, for several hours eachday. Overhearing snatches of their conversations, Georgegathered that they would be culling out birds with any sores ontheir heads or bodies; or with what they judged to be less thanperfect beaks, necks, wings, legs, or over-all configuration.But the worst sin of all was not showing enoughaggressiveness. One morning the massa arrived with a cartonfrom the bie house. George watched as Uncle Mingomeasured out quantities of wheat meal and oatmeal andmixed them into a paste with butter, a bottle of beer, the whitesof twelve game hen eggs, some wood sorrel, ground ivy, anda little licorice. The resulting dough was patted into thin, roundcakes, which were baked to crispness in a small earth oven."Dis bread give 'em strength," said Uncle Mingo, instructingGeorge to break the cakes into small bits, feed each birdthree handfuls daily, and put a little sand in their water panseach time he refilled them. "I want 'em exercised down tonothin' but muscle and bone, Mingo! I don't want one ounce offat in that cockpit!" George heard the massa order. "Gwinerun dey tails off, Massa!" Starting the next day, George wassprinting back and forth tightly holding under an arm one ofUncle Mingo's old catch cocks as it was hotly pursued by oneafter another of the cocks in training. As Mingo had instructed,George would occasionally let the pursuing cock get closeenough to spring up with its beak snapping and legsscissoring at the furiously squawking catch cock Catching the

panting aggressor. Uncle Mingo would quickly let it hungrilypeck up a walnut-sized ball of unsalted butter mixed withbeaten herbs. Then he would put the tired bird on some softstraw within a deep basket, piling more straw over the bird, upto the top, then closing the lid. "It gwine sweat good down indere now," he explained. After exercising the last of the cocks,George began removing the sweating birds from theirbaskets. Before he returned them to their pens. Uncle Mingolicked each bird's head and eyes with his tongue, explainingto George, "Dat git 'em used to it if I has to suck blood clotsout'n dey beaks to help 'em keep breath in when dey done gotbad hurt fightin'." By the end of a week, so many sharp, naturalcock spurs had nicked George's hands and forearms thatUncle Mingo grunted, "You gwine git mistook fo' a gamecocker you don't watch out!" Except for George's briefChristmas- morning visit to slave row, the holiday seasonpassed for him almost unnoticed. Now, as the opening of thecock fighting season approached, the birds' killer instinctswere at such a fever pitch that they crowed and peckedfuriously at anything, beating their wings with a loud whumpingnoise. George found himself thinking how often he heard hismammy. Miss Malizy, Sister Sarah, and Uncle Pompeybemoaning their lot; little did they dream what an exciting lifeexisted just a short walk down the road. Two days after theNew Year, George grasped each gamecock in turn as MassaLea and Uncle Mingo closely snipped each bird's headfeathers, shortened the neck, wing, and rump feathers, thenshaped the tail feathers into short, curving fans. George foundit hard to believe how much the trimming accentuated the

birds' slim, compact bodies, snakelike necks, and big, strong-beaked heads with their shining eyes. Some of the birds'lower beaks had to be trimmed, too, "for when they has tograb a mouth holt," explained Uncle Mingo. Finally, theirnatural spurs were scraped smooth and clean. At the first lightof opening day, Mingo and George were stowing the finallyselected twelve birds in square traveling coops woven ofhickory strips. Uncle Mingo fed each bird a walnut-sized lumpof butter mixed with powdered brown- sugar candy, thenMassa Lea arrived in the wagon, carrying a peck of redapples. After George and Mingo loaded the twelve cockcoops Mingo climbed up on the seat beside the massa, andthe wagon began rolling.

Glancing back. Uncle Mingo rasped,

"You gwine or not?" Leaping after them, George reached thewagon's tailgate and vaulted up and in. No one had said hewas going! After catching his breath, he hunkered down into asquatting position. The wagon's squeakings mingled in hisears with the gamecocks' crowings, cluckings, and peckings.He felt deep gratitude and respect for Uncle Mingo andMassa Lea. And he thought again--always with perplexity andsurprise--about his mammy's having said that the massa washis daddy, or his daddy was the massa, whichever it was.Farther along the road, George began seeing either ahead oremerging from side roads other wagons, carts, carriages, andbuggies, as well as horsemen, and poor crackers on footcarrying bulging crocus sacks that George knew contained

gamecocks bedded in straw. He wondered if Massa Lea hadonce walked to cockfights like that with his first bird, whichpeople said he had won with a raffle ticket. George saw thatmost of the vehicles carried one or more white men andslaves, and every vehicle carried some cock pens. Heremembered Uncle Mingo's saying, "Cockfightin' folks don'tcare nothin' 'bout time or distance when a big main gwinehappen." George wondered if maybe some of those poorcrackers afoot would someday come -to own a farm and a bighouse like the massa did. After about two hours, Georgebegan hearing whaf could only be the crowing of manygamecocks faintly in the distance. The incredible chorus grewsteadily louder as the wagon drew nearer to a heavy thicket oftall forest pines. He smelled the aroma of barbecuing meats;then the wagon was among others maneuvering for places topark. All around, horses and mules were tied to hitching posts,snorting, stomping, swishing their tails, and many men weretalking. "Tawm Leaf" The massa had just stood up in thewagon, flexing his knees to relieve the stiffness. George sawthat the cry had come from several poor crackers standingnearby exchanging a bottle among themselves, and wasthrilled at the instant recognition of his massa. Waving atthose men, Massa Lea jumped to the ground and soon hadjoined the crowd. Hundreds of white people--from small boysholding their fathers' pants legs to old, wrinkled men--were allmilling about in conversational clusters. Glancing around,George saw that nearly all the slave people remained invehicles, seemingly attending to their cooped gamecocks,and the hundreds of birds sounded as if they were staging a

crowing contest. George saw bedrolls under various nearbywagons and guessed that the owners had come from suchlong distances that they were going to have to stay overnight.He could smell the pungent aroma of corn liquor. "Quit settin'dere gapin', boy! We got to limber up dese birds!" said UncleMingo, who had just gotten the wagon parked. Blocking outthe unbelievable excitement as best he could, George beganopening the travel coops and handing one after anotherangrily pecking bird into Uncle Mingo's gnarled black hands,which proceeded to massage each bird's legs and wings.Receiving the final bird. Uncle Mingo said, "Chop up halfdozen dem apples good an' fine. Dey's debes las' eatin' 'fo'dese birds gits to fightin'." Then the old man's glancehappened to catch the boy's glazed stare at' the crowd, andUncle Mingo remembered how it had been for him at his firstcockfight, longer ago than he cared to think about anymore."G'wan!" he barked, "git out'n here an' run roun' li'l bit if youwant to, but be back 'fo' dey starts, you hear me?"

By the time his

"Yassuh" reached Uncle Mingo, George had vaulted over thewagon's side and was gone. Slithering among the jostling,drinking crowd, he darted this way and that, the carpeting ofpine needles springy under his bare feet. He passed dozensof cock coops containing crowing birds in an incredible arrayof plumage from snow- white to coal-black, with everyimaginable combination of colors in between. Georgestopped short when he saw it. It was a large sunken circle,

about two feet deep, with padded sides, and its packedsandy clay floor was marked with a small circle in its exactcenter and two straight lines equally distant from each side.The cockpit! Looking up, he saw boisterous men finding seatson a natural sloping rise behind it, a lot of them exchangingbottles. Then he all but jumped from his skin at the nearbybellow of a reddish-faced official, "Gentlemen, let's get startedfighting these birds!" George sped back like a hare, reachingthe wagon only an instant before Massa Lea did. Then themassa and Uncle Mingo went walking around the wagontalking in low tones as they glanced at the cooped birds.Standing up on the wagon's front seat, George could see overmen's heads to the cockpit. Four men there were talkingclosely together as two others came toward them, eachcradling a gamecock under an arm. Suddenly cries roseamong the spectators: "Ten on the red!"... "Taken!"... "Twentyon the blue!"... "Five of it!" "Five more!"... "Covered!" Thecries grew louder and more numerous as George saw the twobirds being weighed and then fitted by their owners with whatGeorge knew must be the needle- sharp steel gaffs. Hismemory flashed to Uncle Mingo once telling him that birdswere seldom fought if either of them was more than twoounces lighter or heavier than the other. "Bill your cocks!"cried someone at the edge of the cockpit. Then quickly he andtwo other men squatted outside the ring, as the two ownerssquatted, within the circle, holding their birds closely enoughto let them peck briefly at each other. "Get ready!" Backing totheir opposite starting marks, the two owners held their birdsonto the ground, straining to get at each other. "Pit your

cocks!" With blurring speed, the gamecocks lunged againsteach other so hard that each of them went bouncingbackward, but recovering within a second, they were up intothe air shuffling their steel-gaffed legs. Dropping back onto thepit floor, instantly they were airborne again, a flurry of feathers."The red's cut!" someone hollered, and George watchedbreathlessly as each owner snatched his bird as it camedown, examining the bird quickly, then set it back on its startmark. The cut, desperate red bird somehow sprang higherthan its opponent, and suddenly one of its scissoring legs haddriven a steel gaff into the brain of the blue bird. It fell with itswings fluttering convulsively in death. Amid a welter of excitedshouting and coarse cursing, George heard the referee's loudannouncement, "The winner is Mr. Grayson's bird--a minuteand ten seconds in the second pitting!" George's breath camein gasps. He saw the next fight end even more quickly, oneowner angrily flinging aside his losing bird's bloody body as ifit were a rag. "Dead bird jes' a mess of feathers," said UncleMingo close behind George. The sixth or the seventh fight hadended when an official cried out, "Mr. Lea!". The massawalked hurriedly away from the wagon cradling a bird underhis arm. George remembered feeding that bird, exercising it,holding it in his arms; he felt dizzy with pride. Then the massaand his opponent were by the cockpit, weighing in their birds,then fitting on the steel gaffs amid a clamor of betting cries."Pit your cocks!" the two birds smashed head-on; taking tothe air, they dropped back to the floor, furiously peeking,feinting, their snakelike necks maneuvering, seeking anyopening. Again bursting upward, they beat at each other with

their wings--and then they fell with Massa Lea's bird reeling,obviously gaffed! But within seconds, in the next aerial flurry,the massa's bird fatally sank his own gaff. Massa Leasnatched up his bird--which was still crowing in triumph--andcame running back to the wagon.

Only vaguely George heard,

"The winner is Mr. Lea's"--as Uncle Mingo seized the bleedingbird, his fingers flying over its body to locate the deep slashwound in the rib cage. Clamping his lips over it. Uncle Mingo'scheeks puckered inward with his force of sucking out theclotted blood. Suddenly thrusting the bird down beforeGeorge's knees, Mingo barked, "Piss on it! Right there!" Thethunderstruck George gaped. "Piss! Keep it from 'fectin'!"Fumbling, George did so, his strong stream splatteringagainst the wounded bird and Uncle Mingo's hands. ThenUncle Mingo was packing the bird lightly between soft straw ina deep basket. "B'lieve we save 'im, Massa! What one youfightin' next?" Massa Lea gestured toward a coop. "Git datbird out, boy!" George nearly fell over himself complying, andMassa Lea went hurrying back toward the shouting crowd asanother fight's winner was announced. Faintly, beneath theraucous crowing of hundreds of cocks crowing, of menshouting new bets, George could hear the injured birdclucking weakly in his basket. He was sad, exultant,frightened; he had never been so excited. And on that crispmorning, a new game cocker had been bora.

CHAPTER 90

"Look at 'im tryin' to out strut dem roosters!" exclaimed Kizzyto Miss Malizy, Sister Sarah, and Uncle Pompey. Georgecame striding up the road to spend his Sunday morning withthem. "Hmph!" Sister Sarah snorted with a glance at Kizzy."Aw, heish up, woman, we's jes' proud of 'im as you is!" AsGeorge came on, still well beyond earshot. Miss Malizy toldthe others that only the previous evening she had overheardMassa Lea declare tipsily to some game- cocker dinnerguests that he had a boy who after four years ofapprenticeship seemed "natural born" to be come, in time,"the equal of any white or black gamecock trainer in CaswellCounty." "Massa say de of' Mingo nigger say dat boy jes' livean breathe chickens! "Cordin' to massa, Mingo swear oneevenin' late he was walkin' roun' down dere an' seed Georgesettin' hunched over kind of funny on a stump. Mingo say heease up behin' real slow, an' he be dog if'n George wasn'ttalkin' to some hens settin' on dey eggs. He swear dat boywas tellin' dem hens all 'bout fights gwine be winned by debaby chicks de hens 'bout to hatch." "Do Lawd!" said Kizzy,her eyes bathing in the sight of her approaching son. After theusual kissing and hugging with the women and handshakingwith Uncle Pompey, they all settled onto stools brought quicklyfrom their cabins. First they told George the latest white folks'news that Miss Malizy had managed to overhear during theweek. The scant news this time was that more and morestrange-talking white folks from across the big water weresaid to be arriving by the shiploads up North, swelling the

numbers of those already fighting to take the jobs previouslyheld by free blacks, and there was also steadily increasingtalk of sending the free blacks on ships to Africa. Living as hedid in such isolation with that strange old man, they kiddedGeorge, he couldn't be expected to know' about any of this, orabout anything else that was going on in the rest of the world"--less'n it git told to you by some dem chickens"--and Georgelaughingly agreed. These weekly visits offered not only thepleasure of seeing his mammy and the others but also ofgetting some relief from Uncle Mingo's cooking, which wasmore suitable for chickens than for people. Miss Malizy andKizzy knew enough by now to prepare at least two or threeplatefuls of George's favorite dishes. When his conversationbegan to lag--around noon, as usual--they knew he wasgetting restless to leave, and after they had exacted hispromise to pray regularly, and after another round of huggingsand kissings and pumping of hands, George went hurryingback down the road with his basket of food to share withUncle Mingo. In the summertime, George often spent the restof his Sunday afternoon "off" in a grassy pasture where Mingocould see him springing about catching grasshoppers, whichhe would then feed as tidbits to the penned-up cockerels andstags. But this was early winter, and the two-year-old birdshad just been retrieved from the range walks for training, andGeorge was trying to salvage one of the several birds thatMingo and the massa felt were probably too wild and man-shyto respond properly to training and were likely to be culled outas discards. Mingo watched with affection and amusement asGeorge forcibly restrained the pecking, squawking, struggling

stag and started crooning to it, blowing gently on its head andneck, rubbing his face against the brilliant feathers,massaging its body, legs, and wings--until it actually began tosettle down. Mingo wished him luck, but he hoped Georgeremembered what he had told him about taking chances withan unreliable bird. A game cocker breeding and developmentof a fine game flock could represent a lifetime investment, andit could all be lost in a single emotional gamble. You simplycouldn't risk fighting a bird unless every detectable flaw hadbeen permanently corrected. And if it wasn't well, George hadlearned by now to quite calmly wring a gamecock's neck. Hehad come to share fully the massa's and Uncle Mingo's viewthat the only worthwhile birds were those whose intensetraining and conditioning, coupled with instinctiveaggressiveness and courage, would drive them to drop deadin a cockpit before they would quit fighting. George loved itwhen the massa's birds killed their opponents swiftly andwithout injury, sometimes within as little as thirty or fortyseconds, but privately--though he never would have breathedthis to Mingo or Massa Lea--nothing could match the thrill ofwatching a bird he had helped raise from a baby chick battleto the death with another equally game champion, each ofthem staggering, torn and bleeding, beaks lolling open,tongues hanging out, wings dragging on the cockpit floor,bodies and legs trembling, until finally both simply collapsed;then with the referee counting toward ten, the massa's birdwould find somehow one more ounce of strength to struggleup and drive in a fatal spur. George understood very wellMingo's deep attachment to the five or six scarred old catch

cocks that he treated almost as pets-especially the one hesaid had won the biggest bet of the massa's career."Terriblest fight I ever seed!" said Uncle Mingo, noddingtoward that one-eyed veteran. "It was h 'ck d? re in his prime,reckon three-four years 'fo' you come here. Somehow or nother massa had got in dis great big New Year's main being'backed by some real rich massa clear over in Surrey County,Virginia. Dey 'nounced no less'n two hunnud cocks was tofight for a ten thousand dollars' main stake, wid no less'nhunnud-dollar side bets. Well, massa an' me took twentybirds. You lemme tell you, dem twenty birds was ready! Wedriv days in de wagon to git dere, feectin', waterin', an'massagin' dem birds in dey coops as we went. Well, git tingon near de end o' de fight- in', we'd winned some, but we'dlost too many to git at dat main purse, an' massa was plentymad. Den he found' out we " "a? g'." ine be matched 'againstwhat folks claimin' was de meanest mess o' feathers inVirginia. You oughta beared de hollerin' of bets on dat bird!"Well, now! Massa'd done hit his bottle a couple good licks,an' got all red in de face as he could git! An' out'n de birds wehad Ie t. he pick dato' buzzard you's lookin' at right over dere.Massa stuck dat bird under one arm, an' commence walkin'roun' dat cockpit swearin' loud he weren't backin' off nobody'sbets! He say he started wid nothin', if he win' up wid nothin'again, he sho' wouldn't be no stranger to it! Boy, lemme tellyou! Dat tough of' meat an' pinfeathers over yonder went indat cockpit, an' he come out jes' barely, but datother bird wasdead! Dem referees 'nounced dey'd been steady tryin' to killone not her for nigh fo'teen minutes! " Uncle Mingo looked

with warm nostalgia across at the old rooster. "So bad cut upan' bleedin' he was s'posed to die, but I ain't slept a wink 'til Isaved 'im!" Uncle Mingo turned toward George. "Fact, boy,dis sump'n I'se got to 'press on you mon I'se done--you got todo everything you can to save hurt birds. Even dem dat's beenlucky 'enough to kill quick, an' standin' up dere crowin' big an'actin' ready to fight again, well, dey can fool you! Soon's yougit 'im back in yo' wagon, be sho' you checks 'im good allover, real close! Maybe he got jes' some 1'il spur cuts, ornicks, dat can easy git 'fected. Any sich cut, piss on it good. Ifit's any bleedin', put on a spider web compress, or li'l bit o' desoft belly fur of a rabbit. If you don't, two-three days later, yo'bird can start lookin' like it's shrinkin' up, like a limp rag, dennext thing you know yo' bird dead. Gamebirds is like I hearsracehosses is. Dey's tough, but same time dey's mightydelicate critters. " It seemed to George that Uncle Mingo musthave taught him a thousand things, yet thousands more werestill in Uncle Mingo's head. As hard as George had tried tounderstand, he still couldn't comprehend how Mingo--and themassa--could seem to sense which birds would prove to bethe smartest, boldest, and proudest in the cockpit. It wasn'tsimply the assets you could see, which by now even Georgehad learned to recognize: the ideal short, broad backs withthe full, rounded chests tapering to a fine, straight keel boneand a small, compact belly. He knew that good, solid, round-boned wings should have hardquilled, wide, glossy feathersthat tended to meet under a median-angled tail; that short,thick, muscular legs should be spaced well apart, with stoutspurs evenly spaced above strong feet whose long back toe

should spread well backward and flat to the ground. UncleMingo would chide George for becoming so fond of somebirds that he seemed to forget their jungle instincts. Now orthen some gamecock docilely being petted in George's lapwould glimpse one of Uncle Mingo's old catch cocks and witha shattering crow burst from George's grasp in violent pursuitof the old bird, with George racing to stop them before onekilled the other. Uncle Mingo also repeatedly cautionedGeorge to control his emotions better when some bird ofGeorge's got killed in the cockpit; on several occasions thebig, strapping George had burst into tears. "Nobody can'tspeck to win every fight, don' know how many times I got to tellyou dat!" said Mingo. Mingo also decided to let the boy knowthat for several months he had been aware that George hadbeen disappearing not long after full darkness fell, thenreturning very late, recently close to daybreak. Uncle Mingowas sure it had a connection with George's having oncementioned, with elaborate casualness, that while he had beenat the gristmill with Massa Lea one day, he. had met a prettyand nearly high-yaller big-house maid named Charity from theadjacent plantation. "All dese years down here, dese of' earsan' eyes o' mine's like a cat's. I knowed de first night youslipped off," Uncle Mingo said to. his astounded apprentice."Now, I ain't one to poke in nobody's business, but I'se gwinetell you sump'n. You jes' be mighty sho' you ain't cotched bysome dese po' white pate rollers 'cause if dey don't beat youhalf to death deyself, dey'll bring you back, an' don't you thinkmassa won't lay his whip 'crost yo' ass! " Uncle Mingo staredfor a while across the grassy pasture before he spoke again.

"You notice I ain't said quit slippin' off?" "Yassuh," saidGeorge humbly. During another silence, Mingo sat down on afavorite stump of his, leaned slightly forward, and crossed hislegs, with his hands clasped around his knees. "Boy! I'members back when I first found' out what gals was, too" anda new light crept into Uncle Mingo's eyes as the aged featuressoftened. "It was dis here long, tall gal, she was still new to decounty when her massa bought a place right next to mymassa's." Uncle Mingo paused, smiling. "Bes' I can 'scribe 'er,well, de niggers older'n me commence to callin' 'er"Blacksnake'"--Uncle Mingo went on, his smile growing widerand wider the more he remembered--and he rememberedplenty. But George was too chagrined at being caught to beembarrassed by anything Mingo was telling him. It was prettyclear though that he had underestimated the old man in moreways than one.

CHAPTER 91

Walking up the road toward slave row one Sunday morning,George sensed that something was wrong when he saw thatneither his mammy nor any of the others were standing aroundKizzy's cabin to greet him, as they had never failed to dobefore in the four years he'd spent with Uncle Mingo.Quickening his pace, he reached his mammy's cabin and wasabout to knock when the door was snatched open and K-izzypractically jerked him inside, quickly shutting the door beh'ndthem, her face taut with fear. "Is missis seed you?" "Ain't seedher. Mammy! What's the matter?" "Lawd, boy! Massa got

word some free nigger over in Charleston, South Ca'liny,name o' Denmark Vesey, had hunnuds o' niggers ready to killno tellin' how many white folks right tonight, if dey hadn't o' gotcaught. Massa ain't long lef here actin' like he gone wild, a-wavin' his shotgun an' threatenin' to kill anybody missy seeoutside dey cabins 'fo' he git back from some big organizin'meetin'!" Kizzy slid alongside the cabin's wall until she couldlook through the cabin's single window toward the big house."She ain't still where she was peepin' from! Maybe she seenyou comin' an' went an' hid!" The absurdity of Missis Leahiding from him struck some of Kizzy's alarm into George."Run back down wid dem chickens, boy. No tellin' what massado he catch you up here!" "I gwine stay here an' talk to massa,Mammy!" He was thinking that in such an extremity as this, hewould even somehow indirectly remind the massa whosefather he was, which should curb his anger, at least somewhat."You plumb crazy? Git outa here!" Kizzy was shoving Georgetoward the cabin door. "G'wan! Git! Mad as he was, he catchyou here, jes' make it wuss on us. Slip through dem bushesbehin' de toilet 'til you's out'n sight o' missy!" Kizzy seemed onthe verge of hysteria. The massa must have been worse thanhe'd ever been before to terrify her so. "Awright, Mammy," hesaid finally. "But I ain't slippin' through no bushes. I ain't donenothin' to nobody. I'se gwine back down de road jes' same as Icome up it." "Awright, awright, jes' go 'head!" Returning to thegame fowl area, George had barely finished telling UncleMingo what he had heard, fearing that he sounded foolish,when they heard a horse galloping up. Within moments MassaLea sat glowering down at them from his saddle, the reins in

one hand, his shotgun in the other, and he directed the coldfury of his words at George. "My wife saw you, so y'all knowwhat happened!" "Yassuh"--gulped George, staring at theshotgun. Then, starting to dismount, Massa Lea changed hismind, and staying on his horse, his face mottled with hisanger, he told them, "Plenty good white people would be dyin'tonight if one nigger hadn't told his massa just in time. Provesyou never can trust none of you niggers!" Massa Lea gesturedwith the shotgun. "Ain't no tellin' what's in y'all's head off downhere by yourselves! But you just let me half think anythingfunny, I'll blow your heads off quick as a rabbit's! " Glaringbalefully at Uncle Mingo and George, Massa Lea wheeled hishorse and galloped back up the road. A few minutes passedbefore Uncle Mingo even moved. Then he spat viciously andkicked away the hickory strips he had been weaving into agamecock carrying basket. "Work a thou san years for a whiteman you still any nigger!" he exclaimed bitterly. George didn'tknow what to say. Opening his mouth to speak again, thenclosing it, Mingo went toward his cabin, but turning at the door,he looked back at George. "Hear me, boy! You thinks you'ssump'n special wid massa, but nothin' don't make nodifference to mad, scared white folks! Don't you be no fool an'slip off nowhere till this blow over, you hear me? I mean don't!" "Yassuh!" George picked up the basket Mingo had beenworking on and sat down on a nearby stump. His fingersbegan to weave the hickory strips together as he tried tocollect his thoughts. Once again Uncle Mingo had managed todivine exactly what was going on inside his head. Georgegrew angry for permitting himself to believe that Massa Lea

would ever act like anything but a massa toward him. Heshould have known better by now how anguishing and fruitlessit was to even think about the massa as his pappy. But hewished desperately that he knew someone he felt he couldtalk with about it. Not Uncle Mingo for that would involveadmitting to Uncle Mingo that he knew the massa was hispappy. For the same reason, he could never talk to MissMalizy, Sister Sarah, or Uncle Pompey. He wasn't sure if theyknew about the massa and his mammy, but if one did, thenthey all would, because whatever anyone knew got told, evenwhen it was about each other, behind each other's backs, andhe and Kizzy would be no exception. He couldn't even raisethe agonizing subject with his mammy not after her ferventlyremorseful apologies for telling him about it in the first place.After all these years, George wondered what his mammyreally felt about the whole excruciating thing, for by now, as faras he could see, she and the massa acted as if they were nolonger aware that the other existed, at least in that way. Itshamed George even to think about his mammy having beenwith the massa as Charity--and more recently Beulah--wouldbe with him on those nights when he slipped away from theplantation. But then, seeping up from the recesses of hismemory, came the recollection of a night long ago, when hewas three or four years old and awakened one night feelingthat the bed was moving, then lying still and terrified with hiseyes staring wide in the darkness, listening to the rustle of thecorn shucks and the grunting of the man who lay there besidehim jerking up and down on top of his mammy. He had lainthere in horror until the man got up; heard the dull plink of a

coin on the tabletop, the sound of footfalls, the slam of thecabin door. For a seemingly interminable time, George hadfought back scalding tears, keeping his eyes tightly closed, asif to shut out what he had heard and seen. But it would alwayscome back like a wave of nausea whenever he happened tonotice on a shelf in his mother's cabin a glass jar containingmaybe an inch of coins. As time passed, the depth of coinsincreased, until finally he no longer could bring himself to lookdirectly at the jar. Then when he was around ten years old, henoticed one day that the jar was no longer there. His mammyhad never suspected that he knew anything about it, and hevowed that she never would. Though he was too proud ever tomention it, George had once considered talking with Charityabout his white father. He thought she might understand. Theopposite of Beulah, who was as black as charcoal. Charitywas a considerably lighter mulatto than George; in fact, shehad the tan skin that very black people liked to call "highyaller." Not only did Charity seem to harbor no distresswhatever about her color, she had laughingly volunteered toGeorge that her pappy was the white overseer on a big SouthCarolina rice and indigo plantation with over a hundred slaveswhere she had been born and reared until at eighteen shewas sold at auction and bought by Massa Teague to be theirbig-house maid. On the subject of skin color, about all thatCharity had ever expressed any concern about was that inSouth Carolina she had left behind her mammy and a youngerbrother who was practically white. She said that black-skinnedyoung'uns had unmercifully teased him until their mammy toldhim to yell back at his tormentors, "Turkey buzzard laid me!

Hot sun hatched me! Gawd gimme dis color dat ain't none o'y'all black niggers' business!" From that time on. Charity said,her brother had been let alone. But the problem of George'sown color--and how he got it--was eclipsed for the moment byhis frustration at realizing that the near-uprising in farawayCharleston was surely going to delay his following through withan idea he had been developing carefully in his head for along time. In fact, nearly two years had gone into his finallyreaching a decision to try it out on Uncle Mingo. But there wasno sense in telling him about it now, since the whole thingwould hang on whether or not Massa Lea would approve ofthe idea, and he knew Massa Lea was going to remain angrilyunapproachable about anything for quite a while. Though themassa stopped carrying the shotgun after a week or so, hewould inspect the game fowl only briefly every day, and afterterse instructions to Uncle Mingo, would ride off as grim-facedas he had come. George didn't really realize the full gravity ofwhat had almost happened in Charleston until, after anothertwo weeks--despite Uncle Mingo's warning--he found himselfunable to resist any longer the temptation to slip out for a visitwith one of his girlfriends. Impulsively, he decided to favorCharity this time, swayed by memories of what a tigress shealways was with him. After waiting to hear Uncle Mingo'ssnoring, he went loping for nearly an hour across the fieldsuntil he reached the concealing pecan grove from which healways whistled his whippoorwill call to her. When he'dwhistled four times without seeing the familiar "come ahead"signal of a lighted candle waved briefly in Charity's window, hebegan to worry. Just when he was about to leave his hiding

place and sneak on in anyway, he saw movement in the treesahead of him. It was Charity. George rushed forward toembrace her, but she permitted him only the briefest hug andkiss before pushing him away. "What'sa matter, baby?" hedemanded, so aroused by her musky body aroma that hehardly heard the quavering in her voice. "You de bigges' fool,slippin' roun' now, many niggers as git ting shot by pate rollers"Well, legit on in yo' cabin, den!" said George, throwing anarm around her waist. But she moved away a'; ain. "You actlike you ain't even heard 'bout no uprisin'!" "I know was one,that's all"--"I tell you 'bout it, den," and Charity said sheoverheard her massa and missis saying that the ringleader, aBible- reading, free-black Charleston carpenter namedDenmark Vesey, had spent years in planning before cinfidi-igin four close friends who helped him to recruit and organizehundreds of the city's free and slave blacks. Four heavilyarmed groups of them had only awaited the signal to seizearsenals and other key buildings, while others would burn allthey could of the city and kill every white they saw. Even ahorse company of black drivers would go dashing wildly aboutin drays, carts, and wagons to confuse and obstruct whitepeople from assembling. "But datSunday mornin' some scairtnigger tol' his massa what s'posed to happen dat midnight,den white mens was all over, catchin', beatin', an' torturin'niggers to tell who was de up risers Dey's done hung overthirty of 'em by now, an' ever' where dey's throwin' de fear o'Gawd into niggers, jes' like dey's doin' roun' here now, but'specially in South Ca'liny. Done run out Charleston's freeniggers an' burnt dey houses, de nigger preachers, too, an'

locked up dey churches, claimin' dat 'stid o' preachin', dey'sbeen teachin' niggers to read an' write"--George had renewedhis efforts to start her moving toward the cabin. "Ain't youbeen listenin' to me?" she said, highly agitated. "You git home'fo' you's seed an' shot by some dese pate rollers Georgeprotested that inside her cabin was safety from any paterollers as well as relief of his passion for her, which hadcaused him to risk being shot already. "Done tol' you, NAW!"Exasperated, George finally shoved her roughly backward."Well, g'wan, den!" And bitterly he went loping back the wayhe had come, wishing furiously that he had gone to Beulah'sinstead, because it was too late to go there now.

In the morning, George said to Mingo,

"Went up to see my mammy las' night, an' Miss Malizy wastellin' me what she been hearin' massa tellin' missis 'bout datuprisin'"--Unsure if Mingo would believe that story, he went onany way, telling what Charity had said, and the old manlistened intently. Finishing, George asked, "How comeniggers here bouts git ting shot at 'bout sump'n clear in SouthCa'liny, Uncle Mingo?" Uncle Mingo thought awhile before hesaid, "All white folks scairt us niggers sometime gwineorganize an' rise up together"--He snorted derisively. "Butniggers ain't gwine never do nothin' together." He reflected foranother moment. "But dis here shootin' an' killin' you talk 'boutgwine ease up like it always do, soon's dey's kilt an' scairtniggers enough, an' soon's dey makes whole passel o' newlaws, an' soon's dey gits sick of payin' whole bunch o' pecker-

wood pate rollers "How long all dat take?" asked George,realizing as soon as he had said it what a foolish question itwas, and Uncle Mingo's quick look at him affirmed theopinion. "Well, I sho' ain't got no answer to dat!" George fellsilent, deciding not to tell Uncle Mingo his idea until things hadreturned to normal with Massa Lea. In the course of the nextcouple of months, Massa Lea gradually did begin to act moreor less like his old self--surly, most of the time, but notdangerous. And one day soon afterward George decided thatthe time was right. "Uncle Mingo, I been studyin' a long timeon sump'n"--he began. "I b'lieves I got a idea might helpmassa's birds win mo' fights clan dey does. " Mingo lookedas if some special form of insanity had struck his strappingseventeen- year-old assistant, who continued talking. "I beenfive years gwine to de big chicken fights wid y'all. Reckon twoseasons back, I commence noticin' sump'n I been watchin'real close every since. Seem like every different game cockermassa's set o' birds got dey own fightin' style"--Scuffing thetoe of one brogan against the other, George avoided lookingat the man who had been training game fowl since long beforehe was born. "We trains massa's birds to be real strong, widreal long wind, to win a lot dey fights jes' by outlastin' de otherbirds. But I done kept a count--demos times we loses is whensome bird flies up over massa's bird an' gaffs 'im from de top,gin'ly in de head. Uncle Mingo, I b'lieves if'n massa's birds gotstronger wings, like I b'lieves we could give 'em wid whole loto' special wing exercise, I b'lieves dey'd gin'ly fly big hernother birds, an' kill even mo clan dey does now." Beneath hiswrinkled brow, Mingo's deep-set eyes searched the grass

between George's and his own shoes. It was a while beforehe spoke. "I sees what you means. I b'lieves you needs to tellmassa." "If you feels so, cain't you tell 'im?" "Naw. You thunk itup. Massa hear it from you good as me." George felt animmense sense of relief that at least Uncle Mingo didn't laughat the idea, but lying awake on his narrow corn shuck mattressthat night, George felt uneasy and afraid about telling MassaLea. Bracing himself on Monday morning when the massaappeared, George took a deep breath and repeated almostcalmly what he had said to Uncle Mingo, and he added moredetail about different game flocks characteristic fightingstyles. "--An' when you notices, Massa, dem birds o' MassaGraham's fights in a fast, feisty way. But Massa MacGregor'sbirds fights real cautious an' wary-like. Or Cap'n Peabody'sstrikes wid dey feets an' spurs close together, but MassaHoward's scissors wid dey legs pretty wide apart. Dat richMassa Jewett's birds, dey gin'ly fights low in de air, an deypeeks hard when dey's on de groun', an' any bird dey catchesa good beak hold o' jes' liable to git gaffed right dere"--Avoiding the massa's face, George missed his intenselyattentive expression. "Reckon what I'se tryin' to say, Massa, ifyou 'grees wid me an' Uncle Mingo givin' yo' birds somewhole lotsa strong wing exercisin' dat we oughta be able tofigger out, seem like dat help 'em to 'fly up highern de res' togaff 'em from on top, an' speck nobody wouldn't quick catchon." Massa Lea was staring at George as if he had neverseen him before. In the months that remained before the nextcock fighting season, Massa Lea spent more time than everbefore in the game fowl training area, observing and

sometimes even joining Uncle Mingo and George as theytossed gamecocks higher and higher into the air. Descendingwith a frantic flapping of their wings, trying to support their fiveto-six-pound weights, their wings grew steadily stronger. AsGeorge had prophesied, the 1823 cock fighting seasonopened and progressed through one after another "main"contest, with no one seeming to detect how or why the Leabirds were managing to win an even higher percentage oftheir fights than the year before. Their steel gaffs had sunkfatally into thirty-nine of their fifty-two opponents by the end ofthe season. One morning about a week later, Massa Leaarrived--in high spirits--to check on the recovery of the halfdozen of his prime birds that had been injured seriously duringthe season. "Don't b'lieve dis'n gwine pull through, Massa,"said Uncle Mingo, indicating one so drooping and batteredthat Massa Lea's head quickly shook in agreement. "But Ispeck dese in desenext two cages gwine heal up so goodyou be fightin' 'em again next season." Mingo gestured next atthe last three convalescing birds. "Dese here ain't gwinenever be perfect enough fo' de big main fights no mo', but wecan use 'em as catch cocks if you wants to, Massa, or dey begood cull birds anyhow." Massa Lea expressed hissatisfaction with the prognosis and had started toward hishorse when, turning, he spoke casually to George. "Thesenights you slip out of here tomcat ting you'd better be mightycareful about that bad nigger that's sweet on the same gal"--George was so dumfounded it took a full second before angerflared within him at Uncle Mingo's obvious treachery. But thenhe saw that Uncle Mingo's face was no less astounded, as the

massa continued. "Missis Teague told my wife at their quiltingclub meeting she couldn't figure out what had come over heryaller housemaid until lately some of the other niggers told herthe gal's wore out from two-timing you and some bad buckolder nigger"--Massa Lea chuckled. "Reckon the two of y'allsure must be tearin' up that gal!" Charity! Two-timing! AsGeorge recalled furiously with what insistence she hadblocked him from her cabin that night, he forced himself tosmile and laugh nervously; Uncle Mingo joined in just ashollowly. George felt stricken. Now that the massa haddiscovered that he had been slipping off nights, what was hegoing to do to him? Having paused to let George expect hisanger, Massa Lea said instead--in an incredible, almost man-to-man way "--Hell, long as you do your work, go on and chaseyou some tail. Just don't let some buck slice you to pieces--and don't get caught out on that road where the patrol isshootin' people's niggers." "Nawsuh! Sho' ain't"--George wasso confused he didn't know what to say. "Sho' 'predates,Massa"--Massa Lea climbed on his horse, a discernibleshaking of his shoulders suggesting to his gamecock trainersthat he was laughing to himself as he cantered on up the road.Finally alone in his shack that night, after enduring UncleMingo's frostiness through the rest of the day, free at last tovent his outrage at Charity, George cursed her--and vowedthat he would turn his attentions, which she obviously didn'tdeserve, to the surely more faithful, if less hotly passionate,Beulah. He also remembered that tall, cinnamon-colored girlwho had given him the eye at a secret frolic he had stumbledon in the woods while hurrying homeward one night. The only

reason he hadn't tried her then and there was he got so drunkon the white lightning she offered him that he was barely ableto stagger home by dawn. But he remembered she said hername was Ophelia and that she belonged to the very richMassa Jewett, who owned over a thousand game fowl or so itwas said, and whose family had huge plantations in Georgiaand South Carolina as well as the one there in CaswellCounty. It was a long way to walk, but first chance he got,George decided he was going to get better acquainted withthat tasty-looking field girl Massa Jewett probably didn't evenknow he owned.

CHAPTER 92

One Sunday morning George had left for his weekly visit onslave row by the time Massa Lea showed up for dailyinspection of the flock. It was the perfect moment. Afterwalking about and talking of game cocking for a while, UncleMingo said, as if it had just occurred to him, "Massa, youknows how every season we culls out dese fifteen or twentygood birds dat's bet tern a whole lots o' folks fights wid. Ib'lieves you can make good side money if'n you lets dat boyfight yo' culls in hack fights Uncle Mingo knew well that thename of Torn Lea, throughout the length and breadth ofCaswell County, symbolized the rise of a poor white man toeminence and a major game cocker who started out as ahack fighter with one good bird. Many a time he had toldUncle Mingo how fondly he looked back upon those early,hungry days, declaring that their excitements were at least the

equal of those he had enjoyed in all of the major "mains" hehad competed in ever since. The only significant differences,Massa Lea said, were that the big "main" fights involved abetter class of people as well as of gamecocks, and muchhigher amounts of money were wagered; one might see reallyrich game cockers winning--and losing--fortunes in the courseof a single fight. Hackfights were for those who were able tofight only one or two or three usually second- or third-ratebirds--the poor whites, free blacks, or slaves whosepocketbooks could afford bets ranging from twenty- five centsto a dollar, with as much as perhaps twenty dollars being betonly when some hack fighter went out of his head and put onthe line everything he had in the world. "What makes you thinkhe can handle birds in a cockpit?" asked Massa Lea. UncleMingo was relieved to hear no objections to his proposal."Well, suh, close as you know dat boy watch fights, reckon heain't missed a move you made in de cockpits for five, sixyears, Massa. An' put dat togedder wid jes' how na'chel bornhe is wid roosters, sho' b'lieves he'd need no mon a littleteachin'. Even fights he'd lose be jes' cull birds we has roun'here dat you don't never hardly use nohow, suh." "Uh-huh," themassa murmured, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Well, I don'tsee nothin' wrong with it. Why don't you buff the spurs of someculls and help him practice fights across the summer? If helooks any good by next season, yeah, I'll stake him a little forsome bets," "Sho' will, yassuh!" Uncle Mingo was exultant,since for months now in the game fowl area's woodsy privacy,he and George had been mock-fighting culled birds, theirspurs harmlessly covered with a light leather pouch Uncle

Mingo had devised. Being the cautious man he was, the oldman hadn't ventured his suggestion to the massa without firstascertaining for himself that his able apprentice showedgenuine potential to develop into a really good fight handler.With enough back lighting experience, he thought privatelythat George might someday become as expert as Massa Leaat handling birds at a cockpit. As Uncle Mingo had said, eventhe culls from a flock as good as the massa's were superior tothe ones usually pitted in the ma. iy hack fights that werestaged each season in various impromptu and informalsettings around the county. All in all, it seemed to Uncle Mingothat there was practically no way George would miss. "Well,boy, you jes' gwine stand dere will yo' mouth open?" askedUncle Mingo when he broke the news that afternoon. "Don'tknow what to say." "Never thought I'd live to see de day whenyou ain't got nothin' to say." "I... jes' don know how to thankyou." |1 "Wid all dem teeth showin', you don' need to. Le's getto work." Every day that summer, he and Uncle Mingo spent atleast an hour in the late afternoons squatting on oppositesides of a makeshift cockpit, smaller in diameter andshallower than the regular size, but still sufficient for training.After several weeks, the massa came down to observe one ofthe sessions. Impressed with the pit side agility and keenreflexes George showed in handling his bird, he gave him afew cockfight pointers of his own. "You want your bird to getthe jump. Now watch me"--Taking over Mingo's bird, he said,"Okay, your referee's already hollered "Get ready!" You'redown here holding your bird--but don't watch it! Keep youreyes on that referee's lips! You want to tell the split second

he's going to say "Pit!" It's when his lips press together tight"--Massa Lea compressed his own lips. "Right then snatch upyour hands--you'll hear "Pit' just as your bird gets out therefirst!" Some afternoons, after their training session was doneand the cull birds they had used had been put back in theirpens. Uncle Mingo would sit and tell George about the gloryand the money that could be earned in hack fights "Jes' likedepo pecker woods hollers for massa to win, I'se seedniggers dat gits hollered for at de big hack fights An' it's muchas ten, twelve, even mo' dollars can be winned in one fight,boy! " "Ain't never had a dollar, Uncle Mingo! Don't hardlyknow what a dollar look like!" "I ain't never had many neither.Fact, ain't got no use for none no mo'. But massa say hegwine stake you some bettin' money, an' if you wins' any, hejes' might let you have some of it"--"You reckon he do dat?" "Ispecks, 'cause I know he got to be feelin' pretty good " boutdat wing-strengthenin' idea of your'n what done put goodmoney in his pocket Thing is if he do, is you gwine have senseenough to save up what you git? " "Sho" do dat! I sho' would! ""I'se even beared o' niggers winnin' an' savitf enough fromhack fighting to buy deyselves free from dey mass as "Buy mean' my mammy both!" Immediately Uncle Mingo rose from thestump he had been sitting on; the lancing of jealousy that hehad just experienced had not only come entirely unexpectedly,but it was also so unsettling deep within him that he found ithard to make any reply. Then he heard himself snapping,"Well--reckon ain't nothin' impossible!" Wanting suddenly toget away from a feeling that his own sense of sharing a trulyclose affection wasn't being equally reciprocated, he walked

quickly off toward his cabin, leaving George staring after him,puzzled. At a big cockfight main with Massa Lea early duringthe 1824 season. Uncle Mingo heard from an old trainer hehad known for years that a hack fight was due to be held thatcoming Saturday afternoon behind the large barn of a localplantation. "Reckon he 'bout ready as he ever gwine be,Massa," Mingo told the massa later. On Saturday morning, ashe had promised, Massa Lea came down and counted outtwenty dollars in small bills and coins to Uncle Mingo. "Now,you know my policy," he said to both of them. "Don't get inthere fightin' a bird if you're afraid to bet on him! If you betnothin' you'll never win nothin'! I'm willin' to lose whatever youlose, but I'm puttin' up the money and you're fightin' mychickens, so I want half of any winnin's, you understand that?And if I ever think there's any messin' around with my money,I'll take it out of both your black hides! " But they could clearlysee that he was only putting on a gruff act when he was reallyin a good humor as they chorused, "Yassuh, Massa!"Rounding the corner of the large gray-painted barn, trying notto show how excited he was, George saw about twenty blackhack fighters moving around, laughing and talking on one sideof a wide, shallow cockpit. Recognizing about half of themfrom the big fights they'd attended with their mass as as hehad, he waved and smiled his greetings, exchanging nodswith others whose colorful dress and cockily independent airmade him guess that they must be free blacks. Flickingglances at about an equal number of poor whites just acrossthe cockpit, he was surprised to find that he knew some ofthem, too, and pridefully, he overheard one telling another,

"Them two's Torn Lea's niggers." Both the black and whitehack fighters soon began untying their hay-filled crocus bags,withdrawing their crowing, clucking birds and starting to limberthem up as Uncle Mingo stepped around the cockpit and saidsomething to the stout, ruddy-faced referee, who nodded witha glance across at George. The boy was diligently massaginghis stag when Mingo returned and began working on the otherbird they'd brought along. George felt vaguely uneasy at beingphysically closer than ever before to poor whites, whogenerally meant nothing but trouble for blacks, but hereminded himself that Uncle Mingo had told him on their wayover here that hack fighting was the only thing he knew of thatpoor whites and blacks did together. The rule was that onlytwo whites or two blacks fought their birds against each other,but anyone freely could bet on or against any bird in any fight.With his bird well massaged and limbered up and nestledback in its sack, George drank in more of the surroundinghubbub, and he saw yet more hack fighters with filled sackshurrying toward the barn when the referee began waving hisarms. "All right, all right now! Let's get started fightin thesebirds! Jim Carter! Ben Spehce! Get over here and heel 'emup! " Two gaunt, shabbily dressed white men came forward,weighed in their birds, then fitted on the steel gaffs amidsporadic shouted bets of twenty-five and fifty cents. As fa asGeorge was concerned, neither bird looked any bettt thanmediocre compared to the two culls from the massa flock inhis and Uncle Mingo's sacks. At the cry "Pit!" the birds rushedout, burst into th air, and dropped back down, flurrying andfeinting fighting conventionally, George felt, and without the

quality c drama he always sensed with Uncle Mingo and themass at the big fights. When at last one bird hung a gaff thibadly wounded the other in the neck, it took minutes moi tofinish to kill that George knew would have taken a to\ classbird only seconds. He watched the losing owner stal off bitterlycursing his bad luck and holding his dead bir by the legs. In asecond fight, then in a third, neither th winning nor losing birdsshowed George the fight fire an style he was used to seeing,so diminishing his nervousnes that as the fourth fight wore on,he all but cockily antic pated his own turn in the cockpit. Butwhen it came, h heart immediately started pounding faster."All right, all right! Now Mr. Roames' nigger with speckledgray, and Mr. Lea's nigger with a red bird! Y'a boys heel 'emup!" George had recognized his stocky blac opponent whenthey arrived; in fact, several times over th past few years theyhad talked briefly at the big main fight Now, feeling UncleMingo's eyes fastened on him, Georg went through theweighing-in and then kneeled, unbuttor ing the bib pocket ofhis overalls and pulling out tt wrapped gaffs. Tying them ontohis rooster's legs, he n membered Mingo's admonition, "nottoo loose or dey ca git looser an' slide down, an' not too tightless'n dey numi an' cramps his legs." Hoping that he wasachieving just tl right tightness, George heard around him thecries, "Fiff cents on de red!"... "Covered!"... "Dollar on cgray!". "Got dat!" "Fo' dollars on de red!" It was Unc] Mingo,barking out by far the biggest bet, triggering quick rash ofcries to cover him. George could feel tt excitement of thecrowd increasing along with his owi "Get ready!" Georgekneeled, holding his rooster firmly against tt ground, feeling its

body vibrating in its anxiety to burst inl attack. "Pit!" He hadforgotten to watch the referee's lips! By the time his handsjerked up, the other bird was already blurring into motion.Scrambling backward, George watched in horror as his birdgot hit broadside and knocked tumbling off balance, thengaffed in the right side with such swiftness and force that itwas sent reeling. But recovering quickly, it turned to the attackas a patch of feathers began to darken with blood. The twobirds flurried upward, his own flying higher, but its gaffssomehow missed on the way down. Feinting, they went upagain, about evenly high this time, both of their gaffs flashingfaster than anyone's eyes could follow. George's heartskipped beats for endless minutes as the birds pecked,feinted, lunged, and leaped all over the cockpit. He knew hisrooster had to be weakening from its steady loss of blood,even as it kept countering the rushes of the spangled gray.Then suddenly, with the flash of a spur, it was all over, andGeorge's bird lay quivering and fluttering in its final throes. Hescarcely heard the bettors' shouts and curses as he snatchedhis dying bird from the cockpit. Tears bursting forth, he hadpushed through the crowd of astonished, staring men whenUncle Mingo roughly seized his elbow and propelled him onbeyond where anyone else could hear. "You's actin' like afool!" he rasped. "Go git datother bird fo' yo' next fight!" "I ain'tno good at it. Uncle Mingo. Done got massa's bird kilt!" Mingoseemed incredulous. "Anytime birds fight one gwine lose!Ain't you never seen massa lose? Now git on back out dere!"But neither his threats nor urgings were sufficient to move theboy, and finally he stopped trying. "Awright! I ain't gwine back

tellin' massa we was scared to try winnin' his money back!"Angrily, Uncle Mingo turned back toward the crowd around thecockpit. Humiliated, George was surprised and grateful thathe was hardly noticed by the other hack fighters who hadturned their attention to the next contest. Two more fightspassed before the referee cried out again, "Torn Lea'snigger!" In deeper shame, he heard Mingo bet ten dollars andget it covered before the old man pitted the second of themassa's cull birds. It expertly killed its opponent in less thantwo minutes. Uncle Mingo's efforts to console George as theytrudged back toward the plantation did little good. "We donemade two dollars, so how come you actin' like sump'n dyin'?""Jes' so shame o' losin'--an' reckon massa won't hardly wantme losin' no mo' his birds"--Mingo was so upset that his boyseemed determined to become a loser even before he gotstarted that after George had moped around for three days,acting as if he wanted the earth to open up and swallow himwhole, he spoke to Massa Lea about it. "Would you have aword with dat boy, Massa? Seem like he think it a disgrace tolose one fight!" When the massa next visited the game fowlarea, he accosted George. "What's this I hear you can't lose afight?" "Massa, jes' feel terrible git ting yo' bird kilt!" "Well, I'vegot twenty more I want you to fight!" "Yassuh." He washalfhearted even with the massa's reassurance. But whenGeorge won with both birds in his next hack- fight, he began topreen and crow like one of his winning roosters. After proudlycollecting his bets, Uncle Mingo took him aside andwhispered, "Git yo' head big, you be losin' again!" "Jes'lemme hoi' all dat money, Uncle Mingo!" he exclaimed,

holding out his cupped hands. As he stared at the pile ofcrumpled one-dollar bills and more in coins, Mingo saidlaughingly, "You take de money to massa. Do y'all both good!"On their way home, George tried for what seemed thehundredth time to persuade Uncle Mingo to visit the slave rowto meet his mammy, Miss Malizy, Sister Sarah, and UnclePompey. "Massa ain't got but de six o' us niggers, UncleMingo, look like de leas' we could do is know one not her Deysho' like to meet you. I talks 'bout you all de time when I'sedere, but dey feels like you don't like 'em or sump'n!" "You an'dem both ought to know I can't be 'against nobody I don't evenknow!" said Mingo. "Les' jes' keep it like it been, den dey ain'tgot to worry wid me, an' me neither wid demAnd once again,when they reached the plantation, Mingo took the path thatwould give him a wide berth around slave row. Kizzy's eyesfairly bugged when she saw the bills and coins in George'spalm. "Lawdy, boy, where you git all dat?" she demanded,calling Sister Sarah to take a look. "How much is dat,anyhow?" asked Sarah. "Don't know, ma'am, but plenty mo'where it come from." Sister Sarah towed George by his freehand to show the windfall to Uncle Pompey. "Speck I better gitme a rooster," said the old man. "But looka here, boy, dat'smassa's money!" "He gimme half!" George explained proudly."Fact, I got to go give him his share right now." Presentinghimself 9f. the ititchen, George showed Miss Malizy themoney, then asked to see the massa. When Massa Leapocketed his nine dollars' winnings, he laughed. "Hell, I thinkMingo's slippin' you my best birds and me the culls!" Georgewas beside himself! In the next hack fight George won with

two birds he had won with before, and Massa Lea grew sointrigued by George's string of victories that he finally ignoredhis self- imposed objections to attending a hack fight Themassa's unexpected arrival prompted hasty nudges andwhispers among both the white and black hack fightersSeeing even Uncle Mingo and George nervous and uncertain,Massa Lea began to feel misgivings that he had come. Then,realizing that any initiative must be his own, he began grinningand waving at one of the older poor whites. "Hi, Jim." Then toanother: "Hey there, Pete!" They grinned back, astounded thathe even remembered their names. "Hey, Dave!" he went on."See your wife kicked out the rest of your teeth--or was it thatbad whiskey?" Amid uproarious laughter, the hack fightseemed nearly forgotten as they crowded around the manwho had started out as poor as any of them and then becamea legend for them. Bursting with pride, George cradled hisbird under one arm, and astonishing Uncle Mingo as well asMassa Lea, he was suddenly strutting around the edges of thecockpit. "All right! All right!" he cried out loudly, "any y'all gotany money, git it on de line! Don't care what you bets, if I cain'tcover it, my massa sho' can, rich as he is!" Seeing the massasmiling, George grew yet louder. "Dis here jes' his cull bird I'sfightin', an' he beat anything out here! C'mon! " An hour later,after batlyhooing a second winning fight, George had wontwenty-two dollars and Massa Lea nearly forty from acceptingside bets pressed upon him. He really hated to take themoney from men whom he knew to be as dirt poor as he oncehad been, but he knew they would go the rest of the yearboastfully lying how they had lost ten times as much as they

had in betting against Torn Lea. The cocky, self-proclaimingGeorge was missed when he didn't show up at four of CaswellCounty's next hack fights for Uncle Mingo was suffering fromanother siege of severe coughing spells. George saw howthey came on him suddenly, without warning, and thenpersisted, and he felt he shouldn't leave his old teacher alonewith the game fowl nor did he wish to go by himself. But evenwhen Mingo had improved somewhat, he said he still didn'tfeel quite up to walking all the way to the next backlight--but hedemanded that George go anyway. "You ain't no baby! Yousho' be gone quick enough if it was some gals dere!" SoGeorge went alone, carrying in each hand a bulging bagcontaining a gamecock cull. As he came into view of thegame cockers who had been missing his recently colorfulpresence, one of them cried loudly, "Look out! Here come dat"Chicken George'!" There was a burst of laughter from themall, and he heartily joined in. The more he thought of it on hisway home--with still more winnings in his pocket--the better heliked the sound of that name. It had a certain flair. "Betchanone y'all can't guess what dey done name me at de hackfight he said the moment he arrived on slave row. "Naw, what?" "Chicken George!" "Do Lawd!" exclaimed Sister Sarah.Kizzy's love and pride shone from her eyes. "Well," she said,"it's sho' 'bout close as anybody gwine git-to 'scribin you nowdays The nickname even amused Massa Lea when he wastold it by Uncle Mingo, who added wryly, "Wonder to me deyain't callin' 'im "Cryin George," de way he still bust out cryin'anytime a bird he fightin' git kilt. Much as he winnin' now daysdon't make no difference! Jes' let a killin' gaff hit his rooster

an' he gushin' and blubberin' an' hugging dat bird like it hisown chile. Is you ever beared or seed de like of dat befo',Massa? " Massa Lea laughed. "Well, plenty times I've felt likecrying myself when I'd bet a lot more'n I ought to and my birdcaught a gaff! But, no, I guess he's the only one I've heard oftaldn' on like you say. I think he just gets too attached tochickens." Not long afterward, at the biggest "main" of theyear, the massa was returning to the wagon carrying his bird,which had just won in the final contest, when he heardsomeone shout, "Oh, Mr. Lea!" Turning, he was astonished tosee the game cocker aristocrat George Jewett stridingtoward him, smiling. Massa Lea managed to make himselfsound casual. "Oh, yes, Mr. Jewett!" Then they were shakinghands. "Mr. Lea, I'll be very frank, as one gentleman and gamecocker to another. I've recently lost my trainer. The road patrolstopped him without a pass the other night. Unfortunately, hetried to run and was shot, badly. It's not likely he'll pull through." "Sorry to hear it--for you, I mean, not the nigger." Massa Leacursed his confusion, guessing at what was coming. Thearistocrat wanted Mingo. "Of course," said Jewett. "So I findmyself needing at least a temporary trainer, one who knows atleast something about birds"--He paused. "I've noticed at ourcockfights you've got two of them. I wouldn't think of wantingyour experienced older one, but I wonder if you wouldentertain a fair offer for the other, the young one who's sparkin'one of the gals on my place, my niggers tell me"--Massa Lea'sastonishment mixed with fury at this evidence of treachery byChicken George. He sounded choked: "Oh, I see!" MassaJewett smiled again, knowing he'd drawn blood. "Let me

prove I'm not wishing to engage us in bargaining." He paused."Would three thousand be all right?" Massa Lea wasstaggered, not sure if he had heard right "I'm sorry, Mr.Jewett," he heard himself say flatly. He felt the thrill of refusinga rich blue blood "All right." Jewett's voice tightened. "My finaloffer: four!" "I'm just not selling my trainers, Mr. Jewett." Therich game cocker face fell, his eyes had gone cold. "Iunderstand. Of course! Good day to you, sir!" "The same toyou, sir," said Massa Lea, and they strode away in oppositedirections. The massa returned to the wagon as quickly as hecould without running, his rage rising. Uncle Mingo andChicken George, seeing his face, sat with their own carefullyblank. Reaching the wagon, he brandished his fist at George,his voice trembling with fury. "I'll bash your brains in! What thehell are you doin' over at Jewett's--tellin' him how we trainchickens?" Chicken George turned ashen. "Ain't tol' MassaJewett nothin', Massa"--He could hardly speak. "Ain't spokenary word to him, never, Massa!" His total astonishment andfright half convinced Massa Lea. "You tryin' to tell me you'regoing' way the hell over there just to tomcat with Jewett'swench?" Even if it was innocent, he knew how every visitexposed his apprentice trainer to Jewett's cunning, whichcould lead to anything. "Massa, Lawdy mercy"--Anotherwagon now was pulling close by, with men calling and wavingto the massa. Returning their waves, Massa Lea slitted hismouth into a smile and went clambering up onto the farthestedge of the wagon's seat, snapping at the terrified UncleMingo out of the corner of his mouth, "Drive, goddammit!" Aknife could have cut the tension during the seemingly endless

trip back to the plantation. Nor was the tension much less tautbetween Uncle Mingo and Chicken George during the rest ofthe day. That night a sleepless George lay in a sweat ofanticipation over the punishment he knew was coming. Butnone came. And a few days later the massa said to UncleMingo, as if nothing had happened, "Next week I've got a bidto fight birds just over the state line in Virginia. I know that longride wouldn't do your coughing spells any good, so I'll just takethe boy." "Yassuh, Massa." Uncle Mingo had long known thisday was coming; that's why the massa had trained the boy toreplace him. But he hadn't dreamed it would come so soon.

CHAPTER 93

"What you thinkin' about so hard, boy?" After more than anhour sharing the wagon's seat and watching the warmFebruary morning's fleecy clouds, the dusty road stretchingahead, or the monotonously flexing muscles of the mules'rumps, Massa Lea's sudden question startled ChickenGeorge. "Nothin'," he replied. "Wasn't thinkin' 'bout nothin',Massa." "Somethin' I ain't never understood about youniggers!" There was an edge in Massa Lea's voice. "Man tryto talk to y'all decent, you right away start acting stupid. Makesme madder'n hell, especially a nigger like you that talks hishead off if he wants to. Don't you reckon white people wouldrespect you more if you acted like you had some sense?"Chicken George's lulled mind had sprung to keen alertness."Dey might, den again some might not, Massa," he saidcarefully. "It all depen'." "There you go with that round-the-

mulberry-bush talk. Depend on what?" Still parrying until hegot a better idea of what the massa was up to, ChickenGeorge offered yet another meringue of words. "Well, suh, Imeans like it depen' on what white folks you talkin' to, Massa,leas' ways dat's what I gits de impression." Massa Lea spatdisgustedly over the side of the wagon. "Feed and clothe anigger, put a roof over his head, give him everything else heneeds in this world, and that nigger'll never give you onestraight answer!" Chicken George risked a guess that themassa had simply decided upon impulse to open some sortof conversation with him, hoping to enliven what had becomea boring and seemingly endless, wagon ride. In order to stopirritating Massa Lea, he tested the water by saying, "Youwants de straight up-an'-down truth, Massa, I b'lieves mos'niggers figger dey's being' smart to act maybe dumber'n deyreally is, 'cause mos' niggers is scairt o' white folks.""Scared!" exclaimed Massa Lea. "Niggers slick as eels,that's what! I guess it's scared niggers plottin' uprisings to killus every time we turn around! Poisonin' white people's food,even killin' babies! Anything you can name against, whitepeople, niggers doin' it all the time, and when white people actto protect themselves, niggers hollerin' they so scared! "Chicken George thought it would be wise to stop fiddling withthe massa's hair trigger temper. "Don't b'lieve none on yo'place ever done nothin' like dat, Massa," he said quietly. "Youniggers know I'd kill you if you did!" A gamecock crowedloudly in its coop behind them, and some others clucked inresponse. George said nothing. They were passing a largeplantation, and he glanced across at a group of slaves

beating down the dead cornstalks in preparation for plowingbefore the next planting. Massa Lea spoke again. "It makesme sick to think how tough niggers can make it for a manthat's worked hard all his life tryin' to build up something'." Thewagon rolled on in silence for a while, but Chicken Georgecould feel the massa's anger rising. Finally the massaexclaimed, "Boy, let me tell you something'! You been all yourlife on my place with your belly full. You don't know nothin'about what it's like to grow up scufflin' and half starvin' with tenbrothers and sisters and your mama and papa all sleeping intwo hot, leaky rooms!" Chicken George was astonished atsuch an admission from the massa, who went on heatedly asif he had to get the painful memories out of his system. "Boy, Ican't remember when my mama's belly wasn't big with anotherbaby. And my papa chawin' his tobacco and half drunk foreverhollerin' and cussin' that none of us was workin' hard enoughto suit him on ten rocky acres that I wouldn't give fifty cents anacre for, where he called himself a farmer!" Glaring at ChickenGeorge, he said angrily, "You want to know what changed mylife?" "Yassuh," said George. "This big faith-healer came.Everybody was runnin around excited about his big tent being'put up. The openin' night everybody who could walk, eventhose who needed to be carried, were overflowin' that tent.Later on, people said there had never been such a hellfiresermon and such miracle cures in Caswell County. I never willforget the sight of those hundreds of white people leapin',screamin', shoutin', and testifyin'. People fallin' out in one nother arms, moanin' and twitchin' and havin' the jerks. Worsethan you'll see at any nigger camp meetin'. But midst all that

ruckus and hoorah, there was one thing that somehow or nother really hit me." Massa Lea looked at Chicken George. "Youknow anything about the Bible?" "Not--well, nawsuh, not tospeak of." "Bet you wouldn't of thought I know nothin' about it,either! It was from the Psalms. I've got that place marked inmy own Bible. It says, " I have been young and now am old; yethave I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor His seed beggin'bread. " "After that preacher was long gone, that sayin' stuckin my head. I turned it up and down and sideways tryin' tofigure out what meanin' it had for me. Everything I saw in 5 (my family just translated to beggin' bread. We didn't havenothin', and we wasn't going to get nothin'. Finally it seemedlike that sayin' meant if I made myself to get righteous--in otherwords, if I worked hard, and lived the best I knew how--I'dnever have to beg for bread when I was old." The massalooked at Chicken George defiantly. "Yassuh," said ChickenGeorge, not knowing what else to say. "That's when I lefthome," Massa Lea went on. "I was eleven years old. I hit theroad, asking' any and everybody for a job, doing anything,includin' nigger work. I was ragged. I ate scraps. I saved everycent I got, I mean for years, until I finally bought my first twenty-five woods land acres, along with my first nigger, name ofGeorge. Fact, that's who I named you for"--The massaseemed to expect some response. "Uncle Pompey tol' me'bout 'im," said Chicken George. "Yeah. Pompey came alonglater, my second nigger. Boy, you hear what I tell you, I workedshoulder to shoulder alongside that George nigger, we slavedfrom can to can't, rootin up stumps and brush and rocks toplant my first crop. It wasn't nothin' but the Lord that made me

buy a twenty-five-cent lottery ticket, and that ticket won me myfirst gamecock. Boy, that was the best bird I ever had! Evenwhen he got cut bad, I'd patch him up and he went on to winmore hack fights than anyone ever heard of one rooster doin'." He paused. "Don't know how come I'm sittin' up here talkin'this way to a nigger. But I guess a man just need to talk tosomebody sometime." He paused again. "Can't do no talkin'to your wife, much. Seem like once a woman catches ahusband to take care of them, they spend the rest of their liveseither sick, restin', or complainin' about something', withniggers waitin' on them hand and foot. Or they're foreverpattin' tSeir faces with powder till they look like ghosts"--Chicken George couldn't believe his ears. But the massacouldn't seem to stop himself. "Or then you can get the otherkind, like my family. I've wondered a lot of times why none ofmy nine brothers and sisters didn't fight to get away like I did.They're still scumin' and starvin' just the same as the day I left--only now they've all got their own families. " Chicken Georgedecided that he had best not acknowledge with even a"Yassuh" anything the massa was saying about his family,some of whom George had seen briefly talking with themassa when they were at cockfights or in town. Massa Lea'sbrothers were dirt-poor crackers of the sort that not only therich planters but also even their slaves sneered at. Time andagain he had seen how embarrassed the massa was to meetany of them. He had overheard their constant whining abouthard times and their begging for money, and he had seen thehatred on their faces when the massa gave them the fifty centsor a dollar that he knew they were going to spend on white

lightning. Chicken George thought of how many times he hadheard Miss Malizy tell how, when the massa used to invitemembers of his family home for dinner" they would eat anddrink enough to glut three times their own number, and themoment he was out of earshot, would heap scorn on him as ifhe were a dog. "Any one of them could have done what I did!"Massa Lea exclaimed beside him on the wagon seat. "Butthey didn't have the gumption, so the hell with them!" He fellsilent again--but not for long. "One way or another, I've gotthings going' along pretty good now--a respectable roof to liveunder, my hundred or so game birds and eighty-five acres withover half of it in crops, along with the horse, mules, cows, andhogs. And I've got you few lazy niggers." "Yassuh," saidChicken George, thinking that it might be reasonably safe toexpress in a mild way another point of view. "But us niggersworks hard for you, too, Massa. Long as I been knowin' mymammy an' Miss Malizy an Sister Sarah an' Uncle Pompeyan' Uncle Mingo--ain't dey been workin' fo' you hard as deycan?" And before the massa could reply, he tacked onsomething Sister Sarah had mentioned during his visit toslave row the previous Sunday. "Fact, Massa, 'ceptin' for mymammy, ain't none of 'em less'n fifty years ol'"--He stoppedhimself, not about to add Sister Sarah's conclusion that themassa was simply too cheap to buy any younger slaves,apparently expecting to work the few he had until theydropped dead. "You must not have been payin' attention to allI've been tellin' you, boy! Ain't a nigger I got worked as hard asmel y: So don't come tellin' me how hard niggers worki""Yassuh." " Yassuh' what?" "Jes' yassuh. You sho' work hard,

too, Massa." "Damn right! You think it's easy beingresponsible for everything and everybody on my place? Youthink it's easy keepin' up a big flock of chickens?" "Nawsuh, Iknow for sho' dat's hard on you, Massa." George thought ofUncle Mingo's having attended the game flock every day formore than thirty years--not to mention his own seven. Then, asa ploy to emphasize Mingo's decades of service, he askedinnocently, "Massa, is you got any idea how of' is UncleMingo?" Massa Lea paused, rubbing his chin. "Hell, I reallydon't know. Let's see, I once figured he's around fifteen yearsolder'n I am--that would put him somewhere up in his earlysixties. And getting' older every day. Seems like he's getting'sick more and more every year. How does he seem to you?You're livin' down there around him." Chicken George's mindflashed to Uncle Mingo's recent bout of coughing, the worstone he had ever yet suffered, as far as be knew.Remembering how Miss Malizy and Sister Sarah oftendeclared that the massa viewed any claim of sickness on theirpart as sheer laziness, he said finally, "Well, Massa, mos' detime seem like he feelin' fine, but I b'lieves you really ought toknow he do git real bad coughin' spells sometimes--so bad Igits scared, 'cause he jes' like a daddy to me." Catchinghimself too late, instantly he sensed a hostile reaction. A bumpin the road set the cooped gamecocks clucking again, and forseveral moments the wagon rolled on before Massa Leademanded, "What's Mingo done so much for you? Was it himtook you out of the fields and sent you down there with a shackfor yourself?" "Nawsuh, you done all dat, Massa." They rodeon in silence for a while until the massa decided to speak

again. "I hadn't much thought about what you said there backa ways, but now that you mention it, I really got me a bunch ofold niggers. Some of 'em bound, to start breakin' down on meanytime now, goddammiti Much as niggers cost nowadays,I'm going' to have to buy one or two younger field hands! " Heturned as if accosting Chicken George. "You see what I'mtalking about, the kind of things I have to worry about all thetime?" "Yassuh, Massa." " Yassuh, Massa! " That's the niggeranswer to everything!" "You sho' wouldn't want no niggerdisagreein' wid you, suh." "Well, can't you find something tosay besides "Yassuh, Massa'?" "Nawsuh--I means, well, suh,leas' you got some money to buy niggers wid, Massa. Disseason you winned so good in de cockfights." ChickenGeorge was hoping to move the conversation onto a safersubject. "Massa," he asked guilelessly, "is it any gamecockers ain't got no farm at all I means don't raise no crops,jes' nothin' but chickens?" "Hmmmm. Not that I know of, unlessit's some of those city slickers, but I never heard of any ofthem with enough birds to be called serious game cockers Hethought for a moment. "In fact, it's usually the moregamecocks, the bigger the farm--like that Mr. Jewett's placewhere you've been tomcat ting Chicken George could havekicked himself for handing the massa that kind of an opening,and he quickly sought to close it. "Ain't been over dere no mo',Massa."

After a pause, Massa Lea said,

"Found you another wench somewhere else, huh?" Chicken

George hesitated before replying. "I stays close now, Massa."Which avoided a direct lie. Massa Lea scoffed. "Big,strapping twenty-year-old buck like you? Boy, don't tell meyou're not slippin' around nights getting' plenty of that good hottail! Hell, I could hire you out to stud; bet you'd like that! " Themassa's face creased into a half leer. "Good friend of minesays them black wenches got plenty good hot tail, now tell methe truth, ain't that right, boy?" Chicken George thought of themassa with his mammy. Steaming inside, he said slowly,almost coldly, "Maybe dey is, Massa"--Then, defensively, "Idon't know dat many"--"Well, okay, you don't want to tell you'vebeen slippin' off my place at night, but I know it's time, and Iknow where you go and how often you go. I don't want thatroad patrol maybe shooting you like happened to that Mr.Jewett's trainer nigger, so I'll tell you what I'm going to do, boy.When we get back, I'm going' to write you out a travelin' passto go chase tail every night if you want to! Ain't never thoughtI'd do that for no nigger!" Massa Lea seemed almostembarrassed, then covered it with a frown. "But I'm going totell you one thing. First time you mess up, don't get back bydaybreak, or too wore out to work, or I find out you've been onthat Jewett place again, or anything else you know you're notsupposed to do, I'm tearin' up the pass for good--and youalong with it Got that?" Chicken George was incredulous."Massa, I sho' 'predate dat! Sho' do, Massa!" Expansively,Massa Lea waved away the thanks. "All right now, you see I'mnot half bad as you niggers make out. You can tell 'em I knowhow to treat a nigger good if I want to."

The leering grin returned,

"Okay, what about them hot black wenches, boy? How manycan you mount in a night?" Chicken George was squirming inhis seat. "Suh, like I said, ain't know many" But his wordsseemed unheard as Massa Lea went on. "I hear tell whole lotsof white men go and find nigger women for their pleasure. Youknow that happens, don't you, boy?" "I'se beared of it,Massa," he said, trying not to think about the fact that he wastalking to his own father. But apart from what went on inplantation cabins, George knew that in Burlington,Greensboro, and Durham there were "special houses,"spoken of only in hushed tones, usually run by some free blackwoman, where he had heard that white men paid from fiftycents to a dollar to couple with women in their choice of colorsfrom sooty black to high yaller. "Hell," the massa persisted,"I'm just talkin' to you sittin up here by ourselves in this wagon.From what I hear tell, they're nigger women, all right, but byGod they're women! Especially if it's one of the kind that lets aman know she wants it as much as he does. I hear tell theycan be as hot as firecrackers, not always claimin' they're sickand whinin' about everythin' under the sun." The massa lookedinquisitively at Chicken George. "Bellow I know told me younigger boys can't never get enough of that hot black tail, thatyour experience?" "Massa, nawsuh--leas' ways I means jes'now sho' ain't"--"There you go talkin' round the maypoleagain!" "Don't mean roun' no pole, Massa." Chicken Georgewas trying his best to project his seriousness. "I'se tryin' to saysump'n to you I ain't never tol' nobody, Massa! You know dat

Massa MacGregor wid dem spangle yellow birds in decockfights?" "Of course. He and I talk a lot. What's he got todo with it?" "Well, you done give yo' word you gon' give rrie apass, so ain't no need me lyin'. Well, yassuh, lately I beefaslippin out jes' like you say, visitin' dis here gal over y MassaMacGregor's"--His face was a study in earnestness. "Dishere's sump'n I really been needin' to talk wid somebody Ireally can talk to, Massa. Jes' cain't figger 'er out! She nameMatilda, she work in dey fiel', an' fill in if dey needs 'er in deybig house. Massa, she de firs' gal don't care what I'se said ortried, won't let herself be touched, nmsiih! Bes' I can git, Shesay she like me all right, 'cept she cain't stan' my ways--an' Itol' 'er I sho' ain't got no use for hern neither. I tol' her I can gitall de womens I wants, she jes' say go git 'em den, leave heralone. " Massa Lea was listening to Chicken George asincredulously as he had to the massa. "An' not her thing," hewent on. "Every time I goes back she keep quotin' de Bible onme! How come she read de Bible, a preacher massa raised'er till his 'ligion made 'im sell his niggers. Fact, I tell you how'ligious she is! She beared 'bout bunch o' free niggers givin' abig night frolic wid eatin' an' liquor an' dancin' somewheres inde woods roun' over dere. Well, dis gal, ain't but seb'nteen,slip 'way from Massa MacGregor's an' bust in on dat frolicwhile it gwine on hot an' heavy! Dey says she commence sicha carryin' on, shoutin' for de Lawd to come save dem sinners'fo' de devil git dere an' burn 'em up, dat every one dem freeniggers near 'bout run over one not her leavin' dere, deyfiddler hard behin' 'em!" Massa Lea laughed uproariously."Sounds like a hell of a gal! I'll say that!" "Massa"--Chicken

George hesitated. " " Fo' I met her, I is been catchin' jes' muchtail as you says--but dog if she ain't got me to feelin' mo' to itclan jes' tail. Man git to thinkin' 'bout jumpin' de broom wid agood woman"--Chicken George was astounded at himself."Dat is, if she have me," he said in a weak voice. Then evenmore weakly, "An' if'n you wouldn't make no objections"--Theyrode on quite a way amid the wagon's squeakings and thegamecocks' cluckings before Massa Lea spoke again. "DoesMr. MacGregor know you've been courtin' this gal of his?""Well, she being' a field han', don't 'magine she never saynothin' to him directly, nawsuh. But de big-house niggersknows, I speck some dem done tol' it."

After another lull, Massa Lea asked,

"How many niggers has Mr. MacGregor got?" "He got prettybig place, Massa. Seem like from de size his slave row, I'dreckon twenty or mo niggers, Massa." George was confusedby the questions. "Been thinking," said the massa afteranother silence. "Since you were born, you never give me anyreal trouble--in fact, you've helped me around the place a lot,and I'm going' to do something' for you. You just heard mesayin' a while back I need some younger field-hand niggers.Well, if that gal's big enough fool to jump the broom withsomebody loves runnin' tail as much as I expect you won'tnever quit doin', then I'll ride over and talk with Mr. MacGregor.If he's got as many niggers as you say, he ought not to missone field gal all that much--if we can come to a decent price.Then you could move that gal--what's her name? " " Tilda--

Matilda, Massa," breathed Chicken George, unsure if he washearing right. "Then you could move her over to my place,build y'all a cabin" George's mouth worked, but no soundcame out Finally he blurted, "Nothin' but high-class massa dodat!" Massa Lea grunted. He gestured. "Long as youunderstand your first place remains down with Mingo!" "Co'se, suhl" Mustering a scowl, Massa Lea directed astabbing forefinger at his driver. "After you get hitched, I'mtakin' back that travelin' pass! Help what's her name, Matilda,keep your black ass home where it belongs! " ChickenGeorge was beyond words.

CHAPTER 94

When the sun rose on the morning of Chicken George'swedding in August of 1827, the groom was franticallyfastening iron hinges onto the cured-oak doorjamb of his stilluncompleted two-room cabin. Loping to the barn when thatwas done, he hurried back carrying over his head the newdoor that Uncle Pompey had carved and stained with the juiceof crushed black walnut hulls, and mounted it in place. Then,casting a worried glance at the rising sun, he stopped longenough to wolf down the sausage and biscuit sandwich thathad been practically thrown at him by his mammy late theprevious evening in her fury at his long succession of put-offs,excuses, interruptions, and excursions. He had waited solong, and worked so slowly, that she had finally commandedeveryone else not only to stop helping him anymore, but alsoeven to stop offering him any encouragement. Chicken

George next quickly filled a large keg with slaked lime andwater, stirred it vigorously, and--as fast as he could--dippedhis large brush into the mess and began slathering whitewashover the outside of the rough- sawn planking. It was about teno'clock when he finally backed away, almost as whitened asthe cabin, to survey the completed job. There was plenty oftime to spare, he told himself. All he had to do was bathe anddress, then take the two-hour wagon ride to the MacGregorplantation, where the wedding was due to start at one.Bounding between the cabin and the well, he dashed threebucketfuls of water into the new galvanized tub in the cabin'sfront room. Humming loudly as he scrubbed himself, he driedhimself off briskly and then wrapped himself in the bleached-sacking towel to run into the bedroom. After climbing into hiscotton long drawers, he slipped on his blue stiff-front shirt, redsocks, yellow pants, and yellow belt-backed suitcoat, andfinally his brand-new |>| bright-orange shoes, all of which hehad bought with hack- fighting winnings, an item at a time,over the past few months while he and Massa Lea weretraveling to various North Carolina cities. Squeaking in his stiffshoes over to the bedroom table and sitting down on UncleMingo's wedding present, a carved stool with a seat of wovenhickory strips, Chicken George smiled widely at himself in thelong-handled mirror that was going to be one of his surprisepresents for Matilda. With the mirror's help, he carefullyarranged around his neck the green woolen scarf Matilda hadknitted for him. Lookin' good, he had to admit There remainedonly the crowning touch. Pulling a round cardboard box outfrom under the bed, he removed the top and with almost

reverent gentleness lifted out the black derby hat that was hiswedding present from Massa Lea. Turning it slowly aroundand around on stiff forefingers, he savored its stylish shapealmost sensuously before returning to the mirror andpositioning the derby at just the right rakish tilt over one eye."Git out'n derel We been settin' a hour in dis wagon!" Hismammy Kizzy's shout from just outside the window left nodoubt that her rage was undiminished. "Comin', Mammy!" hehollered back. After one last appreciation of his ensemble inthe mirror, he slipped a flat, small bottle of white lightning intohis inside coat pocket and emerged from the new cabin as ifexpecting applause. He was going to flash his biggest smileand tip his hat until he got a look at the baleful glares of hismammy. Miss Malizy, Sister Sarah, and Uncle Pompey, allsitting frozenly in their Sunday best in the wagon. Averting hisglance and whistling as breezily as he could manage, heclimbed up onto the driver's seat--careful not to disturb acrease--slapped the reins against the backs of the two mules,and they were under way--only an hour late, Along the road,Chicken George sneaked several fortifying nips from hisbottle, and the wagon arrived at the MacGregor place shortlyafter two. Kizzy, Sister Sarah, and Miss Malizy descendedamid profuse apologies to the visibly worried and upsetMatilda in her white gown. Uncle Pompey unloaded the foodbaskets they had brought, and after pecking at Matilda'scheek. Chicken George went swaggering about slappingbacks and breathing liquor in the faces of the guests as heintroduced himself. Apart from those he already knew wholived in Matilda's slave row, they were mostly prayer-meeting

folk she had recruited from among the slaves of two nearbyplantations and whom she had gotten permission to invite.She wanted them to meet her intended, and so did they.Though most of them had heard a lot about him from sourcesother than herself, their first actual sight of Chicken Georgeevoked reactions ranging from muttering to open-mouthedastonishment. As he cut his swath through the wedding party,he gave a wide berth to Kizzy, Sister Sarah, and Miss Malizy,whose dagger stares were being sharpened by every remarkeach was overhearing about the dubiousness of Matilda's"catch." Uncle Pompey had chosen simply to merge with theother guests as if he were unaware of who the bridegroomwas. Finally, the hired white preacher came out of the bighouse, followed by the Massas and Missis MacGregor andLea. They stopped in the backyard, the preacher clutching hisBible like a shield, and the suddenly quiet crowd of blackpeople grouped stifHy a respectful distance away. As uuuMLCA nHLtI Matilda's missis had planned it, the weddingwould combine some of the white Christian wedding servicewith jumping the broom afterward. Guiding her rapidlysobering groom by one yellow sleeve, Matilda positionedthem before the preacher, who cleared his throat andproceeded to read a few solemn passages from his Bible.Then he asked, "Matilda and George, do you solemnly swearto take each other, for better or worse, the rest of your lives?""I does," said Matilda softly. "Yassuh!" said Chicken George,much too loudly. Flinching, the preacher paused and thensaid, "I pronounce you man and wife!" Among the blackguests, someone sobbed. "Now you may kiss the bride!"

Seizing Matilda, Chicken George crushed her m his arms andgave her a resounding smack. Amid the ensuing gasps andtongue-clucking, it occurred to him that he might not bemaking the best impression, and while they locked arms andjumped the broom, he racked his brains for something to saythat would lend some dignity to the occasion, something thatwould placate his slave-row family and win over the rest ofthose Bible toters. He had ill "De Lawd is my shepherd!" heproclaimed. "He done give me what I wants!" When he sawthe stares and glares that greeted this announcement, hedecided to give up on them, and the first chance he got, heslipped the bottle from his pocket and drained it dry. The restof the festivities--a wedding feast and reception--passed in ablur, and it was Uncle Pompey who drove the Lea plantation'swagon homeward through the sunset. Grim and mortified.Mammy Kizzy, Miss Malizy, and Sister Sarah cast malevolentglances at the spectacle behind them: the bridegroom snoringsoundly with his head in the lap of his tearful bride, his greenscarf askew and most of his face concealed under his blackderby. Chicken George snorted awake when the wagonjerked to a stop alongside their new cabin. Sensing groggilythat he should beg everyone's forgiveness, he began to try, butthe doors of three cabins slammed like gunshots. But hewouldn't be denied a last courtly gesture. Picking up his bride,he pushed open the door with one foot and somehowmaneuvered both of them inside without injury--only to stumblewith her over the tub of bathwater that still stood in the middleof the room. It was the final humiliation--but all was forgottenand forgiven when Matilda, with a shriek of Joy, caught sight of

her special wedding present: the highly lacquered, eight-day-winding grandfather clock, as tall as herself, that ChickenGeorge had purchased with the last of his hack fight savingsand hauled in the back of the wagon all the way fromGreensboro. As he sat bleary-eyed on the floor where he'dfallen, bathwater soaking his brand-new orange shoes,Matilda went over to him and reached out her hand to help himup. "You come wid me now, George. I'm gwine put you tobed."

CHAPTER 95

By daybreak. Chicken George was gone back down the roadto his game fowl Then, about an hour after breakfast, MissMalizy heard someone calling her name and, going to thekitchen door, she was startled to see the new bride, whom shegreeted and invited inside. "No'm, thank you," said Matilda. "Ijes' wanted to ax which away is de fiel' dey's workin' in today,an' whereabouts can I fin' me a hoe?" A few minutes later,Matilda simply appeared and joined Kizzy, Sister Sarah, andUncle Pompey in the day's field work. Late that evening theyall gathered about her in slave row, keeping her\ company untilher husband got home. In the course of conversation, Matildaasked if any slave-row prayer meetings were held regularly,and when she was told that none were, proposed that one bemade a part of each Sunday afternoon. "Tell you de truth, I'seshame to say I ain't done nowhere near de prayin' I ought to,"said Kizzy. "Me neither," confessed Sister Sarah. "Jes' ain'tnever seem to me no 'mount of prayin' is did nothin' to change

white folks," said Uncle Pompey. "De Bible say Joseph wassol' a slave to de Egyptians, but de Lawd was wid Joseph, an'de Lawd blessed de Egyptians' house for Joseph's sake,"Matilda said in a matter-of-fact manner. Three glances, quicklyexchanged, expressed their steadily mounting respect for theyoung woman. "Dat George tol' us yo' first massa a preacher,"said Sister Sarah. "You sound' like a preacher yo'se'f!" "I'se aservant o' de Lawd, data ll replied Matilda. Her prayermeetings began the following Sunday, two days after ChickenGeorge and Massa Lea had gone off in the wagon with twelvegamecocks. "Massa say he finally got de right birds to go fightwhere de big money is," he explained, saying that this timethe Lea birds would be competing in an important "main"somewhere near Goldsboro. One morning when they were outin the field, carefully employing a gentle tone that suggestedthe sympathy of a forty-seven-year-old woman for a new brideof eighteen, Sister Sarah said, "Lawdy, honey, I 'spect yo'married life gwine be split up twixt you an' dem chickens."Matilda looked at her squarely. "What I done always beared,an' b'lieved, is anybody's marriage jes' what dey makes it. An'I reckon he know what kin' he want our'n to be." But havingestablished her stand about marriage, Matilda would readilyshare in any conversation about her colorful husband, whetherit was humorous or serious in nature. "He done had itchy footssince he was a crawling' baby," Kizzy told her one night,visiting in the new cabin. "Yes, ma'am," said Matilda, "Ifiggered dat when he come a-courtin'. He wouldn't talk 'bouthardly nothin' 'cept rooster fightin' an' him an' de massatravelin' somewheres. " Hesitating, she then added in her

frank way, "But when he found' out weren't no man gwine havehis way wid me 'fo' we'd jumped a broom, Lawd, he had a fit!Fact, one time I give up on seem' 'im again. Don't know whathit 'im, but I like to fell out de night he come a-rushin' in an' say," Look, let's us git hitched! " "Well, I'se sho' glad he had desense!" said Kizzy. "But now you's hitched, gal, I'se gwine tellyou straight what's on my min'. I wants me some gran'chilluns!" "Ain't nothin wrong wid dat, Miss Kizzy. "Cause I wants mesome young'uns, too, same as other womens haves." WhenMatilda announced two months later that she was in a familyway, Kizzy was beside herself. Thinking about her sonbecoming a father made her think about her father--more thanshe had in many years--and one evening when ChickenGeorge was away again, Kizzy asked, "Is he ever mentionedanything to you 'bout his gran'pappy?" "No'm, he ain't."Matilda looked puzzled. "He ain't?" Seeing the older woman'sdisappointment, Matilda added quickly, "Reckon he jes' ain'tgot to it yet, Mammy Kizzy." Deciding that she'd better do itherself, since she remembered more than he did anyway,Kizzy began telling Matilda of her life at Massa Waller's forsixteen years until her sale to Massa Lea, and most of whatshe had to say was about her African pappy and the manythings he had told to her. " Tilda, how come I'se tellin' you alldis, I jes' wants you to under stan how I wants dat chile in yo'belly an' any mo' you has to know all 'bout 'im, too, on 'count ofhe's dey great-gran'daddy." "I sho' does under stan MammyKizzy," said Matilda, whereupon her mother-in-law told yetmore of her memories, with both of them feeling theircloseness growing throughout the rest of the evening. Chicken

George's and Matilda's baby boy was born during the springof 1828, with Sister Sarah serving as the midwife, assisted bya nervous Kizzy. Her joy about having a grandchild at lasttempered her anger that the boy's father was yet again offsomewhere for a week with Massa Lea. The followingevening, when the new mother felt up to it, everyone on slaverow gathered at the cabin to celebrate the birth of the secondbaby that had been born there on the Lea plantation. "You'sfinally "Gran'mammy Kizzy' now!" said Matilda, propped up inbed against some pillows, nestling the baby and weaklysmiling at her visitors. "Lawd, yes! Don't it sound' pretty!"exclaimed Kizzy, her whole face one big grin. "Soun' like tome Kizzy git ting of', dat's what!" said Uncle Pompey with atwinkle in his eye. "Hmph! Ain't no woman here of' as somewe knows!" snorted Sister Sarah.

Finally, Miss Malizy commanded,

"Awright, time us all git out'n here an' let 'em res'!" And they alldid, except for Kizzy. After being quietly thoughtful for a while,Matilda said, "Ma'am, I been thinkin' 'bout what you tol' me'bout yo' pappy. Since I never even got to see mine, I blievesGeorge wouldn't care if dis child have my pappy's name. Itwas Virgil, my mammy say." The name instantly had ChickenGeorge's hearty approval when he returned, filled with suchjubilance at the birth of a son that he could hardly containhimself. Black derby awry as his big hands swooped the infantup in the air, he exclaimed, "Mammy, 'member what I tol' you, Igwine tell my young'uns what you tol' me?" His face alight, he

made a little ceremony of seating himself before the fireplacewith Virgil held upright in his lap as he spoke to him in grandtones. "Listen here, boy! Gwine tell you 'bout yo' great-gran'daddy. He were a African dat say he name "Kunta Kinte."He call a guitar a koan' a river "Kamby Bolongo," an' lot mo'things wid African names. - He say he was chopping' a tree tomake his 1'ii brother a drum when it was fo' mens come up an'grabbed 'im from.; behin'. Den a big ship brung 'im 'crost debig water to a| place call "Naplis. An' he had runned off fo'times when he try to kill dem dat cotched 'im an' dey cut halfhis foot off!" Lifting the infant, he turned his face toward Kizzy."An'. he jumped de broom wid de big-house cook name MissIBell, an' dey had a 1'il of' gal--an' dere she is, yo' gran'mammy grinnin' at you right dere!" Matilda was beamin herapproval as widely as Kizzy, whose eyes were moi with loveand pride. With her husband away as much as he was, Matikbegan spending more of her time in the evenings wilGran'mammy Kizzy, and after a while they were poolir theirrations and eating their supper together. Alwa Matilda wouldsay the grace as Kizzy sat quietly with h< hands folded andher head bowed. Afterward Matil would nurse the baby, andthen Kizzy would sit pro with little Virgil clasped against herbody, rocking him back and forth, either humming or singing tohim softly as the grandfather clock ticked and Matilda satreading her worn Bible. Even though it wasn't against themassa's rules, Kizzy still disapproved of reading--but it wasthe Bible, so she guessed no harm could come of it. Usually,not too long after the baby was asleep, Kizzy's head wouldbegin bobbing, and often she would begin murmuring to

herself as she dozed. When she leaned over to retrieve thesleeping Virgil from Kizzy's arms, Matilda sometimes heardsnatches of the things she was mumbling. They were alwaysthe same: "Mammy... Pappy... Don't let 'em take me!... Mypeople's los'.... Ain't never see 'em no mo' dis worl'... " Deeplytouched, Matilda would whisper something like, "We's yo'people now, Gran'mammy Kizzy," and after putting Virgil tobed, she would gently rouse the older woman--whom she wasgrowing to love as she had her own mother--and afteraccompanying her to her own cabin, Matilda would often bewiping at her eyes on her way back. On Sunday afternoons,only the three women attended Matilda's prayer' services atfirst--until Sister Sarah's sharp tongue finally shamed UnclePompey into joining them. No one ever even thought aboutinviting Chicken George, for even when he was at home, bySunday noon he would have returned to the game fowl area.With the little group of five seated solemnly on chairs broughtfrom their cabins and placed in a half circle under thechinquapin tree, Matilda would read some biblical passagesshe had selected. Then, with her serious brown eyessearching each face, she would ask if any among them wouldcare to lead in prayer, and seeing that none of them did, shewould always say, "Well, den, will y'all jine me on bendedknee?" As they all kneeled facing her, she would of feramoving, unpretentious prayer. And afterward she'd lead themin singing some spirited song; even Uncle Pompey's cracked,raspy baritone joined in as they made slave row resound withsuch rousing spirituals as "Joshua fit de battle o' Jericho!Jericho! Jericho!... An' de walls come a-tumblin' down!" The

meeting turned then into a group discussion on the generalsubject of faith. "Dis is de Lawd's day. We all got a soul tosave an' a heab'n to maintain," Matilda might offer in hermatter-of fact way. "We needs to keep in our minds who it wasmade us, an' dat was Gawd. Den who it was redeemed us,an' dat was Christ Jesus. Christ Jesus teached us to behumble, an' mindful, dat we can be reborn in de sperrit. " "Iloves Lawd Jesus good as anybody," Kizzy testified humbly,"but y'all see, I jes' ain't never knowed dat much 'bout 'im 'til Iwas up some size, even though my mammy say she had mechristened when I was jes' a 1'il thing, at one dem big campmeetin's." "Seem like to me we does debes if we's been putnext to Gawd when we's young'uns," said Sister Sarah. Shegestured at Virgil in his gran'mammy's lap. " " Cause dat waywe starts out early soakin' up some 'ligion an' settin' sto' by it." Miss Malizy spoke to Uncle Pompey. "You don't know, ifyou'd of started out early, you might of made a preacher. Youeven got de look of one as it is." "Preacher! How I'm gwinepreach an' cain't even read!" he exclaimed. "De Lawd putthings to say in yo' mouth if He call you to preach," Matildasaid. "Dat husban' of your'n call his self preachin' roun' hereonce!" said Miss Malizy. "He ever tol' you 'bout dat?" They alllaughed and Kizzy said, "He sho' could of made some kin' o'preacher! Much as he love to show off an' run his mouth!""He'd o' been one dem trickin' an' trancin' preachers holdin'big revivals!" said Sister Sarah. They talked for a while aboutpowerful preachers they had all either seen or heard about.Then Uncle Pompey told of his powerfully religious mother,whom he remembered from boyhood on the plantation where

he was born. "She was big an' fat an' I reckon de shoutin'estwoman anybody ever beared of." "Remind me of of' maidSister Bessie on de plantation I was raised on," said MissMalizy. "She was not her one dem shoutin' womens. She'd gotof' widout no husban' till it come one dem big camp meetin's.Well, she shouted till she went in a trance. She come out'n itsayin' she jes' had a talk wid de Lawd. She say He say hermission on de earth was to save of' Br'er Timmons fromgoing' to hell by him jumpin' de broom wid sich a Christianwoman as her! Scared 'im so bad he jumped it, too! " Thoughfew of those he ran into on his trips would have guessed fromthe way he acted that Chicken George had jumped thebroom--or ever would--he surprised the women on slave rowat home with how warmly he took to marriage and how well hetreated his wife and family. Never did he return from acockfight--wearing his scarf and derby, which had become hiscostume, rain or shine, summer or winter--without winnings toput away. Most of the time, giving Matilda a few dollars, hedidn't have much money left after paying for the gifts he, ofcourse, always brought along not only for Matilda and hismammy, but also for Miss Malizy, Sister Sarah, and UnclePompey as well as for young Virgil. He always came home,too, with at least an hour's worth of news about whatever hehad seen or heard about on his travels. As his slave-rowfamily gathered around him, Kizzy would nearly always thinkhow her African pappy had brought another slave row most ofits news, and now it was her son. Returning once from a longjourney that had taken him to Charleston, Chicken Georgedescribed "so many dem great big sailin' ships dey poles

look like a thicket! An' niggers like ants packin' an' polin' outdem great big tobacco hogsheads an' all kinds o' other stuff tosail de water to dat England an' different mo' places. Look likewherever me an' massa travels now days it's niggers diggincanals, an layin' dem gravel highways, an' buildin' railroads!Niggers jes' buildin' dis country wid dey muscles!" Anothertime he had heard that "de white folks threatening de Indians'bout takin' in so many niggers on dey reservations. Plentydem Creeks and Seminoles done married niggers. It's evensome nigger Indian chiefs! But I hears dem Chocktaws,Chickasaws, an' Cherokees hates niggers even worsen whitefolks does." He would be asked far fewer questions than theyreally wanted to know the answers to, and soon, making politeexcuses, Kizzy, Miss Malizy, Sister Sarah, and Uncle Pompeywould disappear into their cabins to let him and Matilda bealone. "Done tol' myself you never gwine hear me wid nowhole lot of complainin', George," she told him one such nightas they lay in bed, "but I sho' do feel like I ain't hardly got nohusban' a lot o' times." "Knows what you means, honey, I sho'does," he said easily. "Out dere travelin' wid massa, orsometime me and Uncle Mingo up all night wid some demsick chickens, I he's jes' thinkin' 'bout you an' de young' unMatilda bit her tongue, choosing not to voice her doubts, evenher suspicions about some of the things he said. Instead sheasked, "You figger it's ever gwine git any better, George?""Ever git massa rich enough! So he be willin' to stay home hisself But look, it ain't hurtin' us none, baby! Look how we'ssavin' if I can keep bringin' in winnin's like I is. " "Money ain'tyou!" said Matilda flatly, and then she made her tone softer.

"An' we'd save a lot mo' if you jes' ease up buyin' presents forever' body We all 'predates 'em, you knows dat! But, George,where I ever gwine wear sich as dat fine silk dress I specksbet tern any missy got!" "Baby you can jes' put dat dress onright in here, den pull it off fo' me!" "You's terrible!" He was themost exciting man--beyond anyone she had even dreamed ofknowing, at least in that way. And he certainly was a fineprovider. But she didn't really trust him, and she couldn't helpwondering whether he loved her and their baby as much as hedid traveling with the massa. Was there anything in theScriptures about chickens? Vaguely she recalled something--in Matthew, if she wasn't mistaken--about "a hen gathereth herchickens beneath her wings..." I must look that up, she toldherself. When she did have a husband at home, though,Matilda submerged her doubts and disappointments and triedto be the best wife she knew how. If she knew he was coming,a big meal was waiting; if he came unexpectedly, sheprepared one right away, day or night. After a while she quittrying to get him to bless a meal, simply saying a short graceherself, then delighting in watching him eat while he held thegurgling Virgil in his lap. Then afterward, with the boy put tobed, examining George's face, she pinched out blackheads;or heating water to half fill the tin tub, she would wash his hairand his back; and if he arrived complaining of aching feet, shewould rub them with a warm paste of roasted onions andhomemade soap. Finally, whenever the candles were blownout and they were again between her fresh sheets. ChickenGeorge would make up for his absences to the utmost. Aboutthe time Virgil began to walk, Matilda was great with child

again; she was surprised it hadn't happened sooner. Withanother child on the way, Gran'mammy Kizzy decided the timehad come to take her son aside and tell him a thing or two thathad been on her mind for a long time. He arrived home from atrip one Sunday morning to find her minding Virgil whileMatilda was up in the big house helping Miss Malizy preparedinner for guests who were soon to arrive. "You set down rightdere!" she said, wasting no time. He did, eyebrows risen. "Idon't care if you's grown now, I still brought you in dis worl', an'you gwine listen! God done give you a real good woman youain't no ways treatin' right! I ain't foolin' wid you now! You hearme? I still take a stick to your behin' in a minute! You got tospen' mo' time wid yo' wife an' young' un an' her awready bigwid yo' nex' one, too! " "Mammy, what you 'speck?" he said asirritably as he dared. "When massa say, "Go," tell him I ain't? "Kizzy's eyes were blazing. "Ain't talkin' 'bout dat an' you knowit! Tellin' dat po' gal you settin' up nights tendin' sick chickensan' sich as dat! Where you git all dis lyin' an' drinkin' an'gamblin' an' runnin' roun'? You knows I ain't raised you likedat! An' don't think dis jes' me talkin'! Tilda ain't no fool, shejes' ain't let you know she seem' right through you, too! "Without another word, Gran'- mammy Kizzy stalked angrilyfrom the cabin. With Massa Lea being among the entrants forthe great 1830 cock fighting tournament in Charleston, no onecould criticize Chicken George for being away when the babywas born. He returned as ecstatic to learn about his secondson--whom Matilda had already named Ashford, after herbrother--as he was aglow with his good luck. "Massa winnedover a thou san dollars, an' I winned fifty in de hack fights Y'all

ought to hear how white folks an' niggers both has started tohollerin', "I'm bettin' on dat Chicken George'!" He told her howin Charleston, Massa Lea had learned that President AndrewJackson was a man after their own style. "Ain't nobody lovecock fighting mon he do! He call in dem big congress mensan' senators an' he show 'em a time fightin' dem Tennesseebirds o' his'n right dere in dat White House! Massa say datJackson gamble an' drink wid any man. Dey say when demmatchin' chestnut bosses pullin 'im in dat fine Pres'dent'scoach, he be settin' up dere wid his velvet-lined suitcase o'liquor right beside 'im! Massa say far as southern white men'sconcerned, he can stay Pres'dent till he git tired! " Matilda wasunimpressed. But Chicken George had seen something inCharleston that shook her--and the others on slave row--asdeeply as it had him. "I bet you I seen a mile long o' niggersbeing' driv along in chains!" "Lawdy! Niggers from where?"asked Miss Malizy. "Some sol' out'n Nawth an' South Ca'liny,but mainly out'n Virginia was what I beared!" he said."Different Charleston niggers tol' me it's thou san o' niggers amonth git ting took to great big cotton plantations steadybeing' cleared out'n de woods in Alabama, Mississippi,Louisiana, Arkansas, an' Texas. Dey say de ol'-style niggertraders on a boss is gone, done become big companies widoffices in big hotels! Dey say it's even big paddle-wheel shipscarryin' nothin' but chained-up Virginia niggers down to NewOrleans! An' dey says"--"Jes' heish!" Kizzy sprang upright."HEISH1" She went bolting toward her cabin in tears. "Whatcome over her?" George asked Matilda after the others hadleft in embarrassment. "Ain't you know?" she snapped. "Her

mammy an' pappy in Virginia las' she know, an' you scare herhalf to death!" Chicken George looked sick. His face told herhe hadn't realized, but Matilda refused to let him off that easily.She had become convinced that for all of his worldliness, hewas sorely lacking in sensitivity about too many things. "Youknows well as I does Mammy Kizzy been sol' herself! Jes' likeI was!" she told him. Anybody ever sol' ain't gwine never for gitit! An' won't never be de same no mo'! " She looked at himsignificantly. "You ain't never been. Dat's how come you don'tunder stan no massa cain't never be trusted--includin' your'n!""What you rilin' at me fo'?" he demanded testily. "You ax mewhat upset Mammy Kizzy an' I tol' you. Ain't got no mo' to say'bout it!" Matilda caught herself. She didn't want harshnessbetween her and her husband. After a moment's silence, shemanaged a small smile. "George, I knows what make MammyKizzy feel better! Go make 'er come on over here to hear youtell dis baby 'bout his African gran'pappy like you tol' Virgil. "And that's just what he did.

CHAPTER 96

It was near dawn, and Chicken George was standing in thedoorway swaying slightly and grinning at Matilda, who wassitting up waiting for him. His black derby was askew. "Foxgot 'mongst de chickens," he slurred. "Me an' Uncle Mingobeen all night catehin' 'cm " Matilda's upraised hand silencedhim, and her tone was cold. "Reckon de fox give you liquor an'sprinkled you wid dat rose water I smells " Chicken George'smouth opened. "Naw, George, you listen! Look here, long as

I'se yo' wife, an' mammy to our chilluns, I be here when youleaves an' I be here when you gits back, 'cause ain't us muchas yo'self you's doin' wrong. It right in de Bible: " You sowswhat you reaps' sow single, you reaps double! An' Matthewsebenth chapter say, "Wid whatsoever measure you metesout to others, dat shall be measured out to you again!" " Hetried to pretend that he was too outraged to speak, but he justcouldn't think of anything to say. Turning, he reeled back outthe door and staggered down the road to sleep with thechickens. But he was back the next day, derby hat in hand,and dutifully spent all but a few nights with his family throughthe rest of that fall and winter, and those few only when he andthe massa were away briefly on some trip. And when Matilda'snext labor pains quickened early one morning in January of1831, although it was the height of game cocking season, hepersuaded the massa to let him stay home and to take theailing Uncle Mingo along with him to that day's fights.Anxiously, he paced outside the cabin door, wincing andfrowning as he listened to Matilda's anguished moans andcries. Then, hearing other voices, he tiptoed gingerly closeand heard his Mammy Kizzy urging, "Keep pullin' 'against myhand--hard, honey!... Another breath... deep!... dat's right...Hold!... Hold! "

Then Sister Sarah commanded,

"Bear down. you hear me!... Now PUSH!.. PUSH! " Then,soon: "Here it come... Yes, Lawd"--When he heard sharpslaps, then an infant's shrill cries, Chicken George backed

away several steps, dazed by what he had just heard. It wasn'tlong before Gran'mammy Kizzy emerged, her face creasinginto a grin. "Well, look like all y'all got in you is boys!" Hebegan leaping and springing about, whooping so boisterouslythat Miss Malizy came bolting out the back door of the bighouse. He ran to meet her, scooped her up off her feet,whirled her around and around, and shouted" " Dis one bename after me! " The next evening, for the third time, hegathered everyone around to listen as he told his family'snewest member about the African great-gran'daddy whocalled himself Kunta Kinte. At the end of a routine CaswellCounty landholders' meeting late that August, the countycourthouse was resounding with the parting calls of the localplanters as they began to disperse and head homeward.Massa Lea was driving his wagon--Chicken George squattingin the back with his pocket clasp knife, gutting and scaling thestring of hand-sized perch that the massa had just bought froma vendor--when the wagon stopped abruptly. George's eyeswidened as he sat up in time to see Massa Lea already onthe ground hurrying along with many other mass as toward awhite man who had just dismounted from a heaving, latheredhorse. He was shouting wildly (o his swiftly enlarging crowd.Snatches of his words reached Chicken George and the otherblacks, who listened gaping: "Don't know how many wholefamilies dead"... "women, babies"... "sleepin' in their bedswhen the murderin' niggers broke in"... "axes, swords, clubs"..."nigger preacher named Nat Turner..." The faces of the otherblacks mirrored his own dread foreboding as the white mencursed and gestured with flushed, furious faces. His mind

flashed back to those terror-filled months after that revolt inCharleston had been foiled with no one hurt. What on earthwould happen now? Slit-eyed, the massa returned to thewagon, his face frozen with rage. Never looking back, hedrove homeward at a mad gallop with Chicken Georgehanging on in the wagon bed with both hands. Reaching thebig house, Massa Lea sprang from the wagon, leavingGeorge staring at the cleaned fish. Moments later. Miss Malizyran out the kitchen door and rushed across the backyardtoward slave row, nailing her hands over her bandannaedhead. Then the massa reappeared carrying his shotgun, hisvoice rasping at George, "Get to your cabin!" Orderingeveryone on slave row out of their quarters, Massa Lea toldthem icily what Chicken George had already heard. Knowingthat he alone might possibly temper the massa's wrath,George 'found his voice. "Please, Massa"--he said,quavering. The shotgun jerked directly toward him. "Git!Everything out of your cabins! All you niggers, GIT!" For thenext hour, carrying, dragging, heaping their meagerbelongings outside, under the massa's searching eyes andabusive threats of what he would do to whomever he foundconcealing any weapons or suspicious objects, they shookout every cloth, opened every container, cut and tore apartevery corn shuck mattress--and still his fury seemed beyondany bounds. With his boot he shattered Sister Sarah's box ofnature remedies, sending her dried roots and herbs flyingwhile he yelled at her, "Get rid of that damn voodoo!" Beforeother cabins he flung away treasured possessions andsmashed others with his fists or his feet. The four women were

weeping, old Uncle Pompey seemed paralyzed, thefrightened children clutched tearfully about Matilda's skirts.Chicken George's own fury boiled as Matilda cried out, almostin pain, when the shotgun's butt smashed the front paneling ofher precious grandfather clock. "Let me find a sharpened nailin there, some nigger ll die!" Leaving slave row in a shambles,the massa rode in the wagon bed holding his shotgun asGeorge drove them down to the game fowl training area.Faced with the gun and the barked command for all of theirbelongings to be emptied out, the terrified old Uncle Mingobegan blurting, "Ain't done nothin, Massa"--"Trustin' niggersgot whole families dead now!" yelled Massa Lea.Confiscating the axe, the hatchet, the thin wedge, a metalframe, and both of their pocket knives, the massa loadedthem all into the wagon as Chicken George and Uncle Mingostood watching. "In case you niggers try to break in, I'msleepin' with this shotgun!" he shouted at them, lashing thehorse into a gallop and disappearing up the road in a cloud ofdust.

CHAPTER 97

"Hear you've got four boys in a row now!" The massa wasgetting off his horse in the game fowl training area. It hadtaken a full year for the white South's mingled fear and fury--including Massa Lea's--to fully subside. Though he hadresumed taking Chicken George with him to cockfights amonth or two after the revolt, the massa's obvious. coldnesshad taken the rest of a year to thaw. But for reasons unknown

to either man, their relationship had seemed to grow closerthan ever before ever since then. Neither one ever mentionedit, but they hoped fervently that there would be no more blackuprisings. "Yassuh! Big of' fat boy borned 'fo' daybreak,Massal" said Chicken George, who was mixing a dozengame hen egg whites and a pint of beer with oatmeal,cracked wheat, and a variety of crushed herbs to bake a freshsupply of the gamecocks' special bread. He had learned the"secret" recipe only that morning, grudgingly, from ailing oldUncle Mingo, whom Massa Lea had ordered to rest in hiscabin until his unpredictable and increasingly severecoughing- spells eased off. In the meanwhile. Chicken Georgealone was intensely training twenty-odd top-prime gamecocksafter almost ruthless cullings from among the seventy-sixfreshly matured birds recently brought in off the range- walks. Itwas but nine weeks from the day that he and Massa Lea wereto leave for New Orleans. His years of local victories, plus nofew in statewide competitions, had finally emboldened themassa to pit his topmost dozen birds in that city's renownedNew Year's Day season-opening "main." If the Lea birds couldwin as many as half of their pittings against the caliber ofchampionship fighting cocks assembled there, the massawould not only win a fortune but also find himself elevatedovernight into recognition among the entire South's majorgame cockers Just the possibility was so exciting thatChicken George had been able to think of almost nothingelse. Massa Lea had walked his horse over and tied a smallrope from its halter onto the split-rail fence. Ambling back overnear George, the massa scuffed the toe of his boot against a

clump of grass and said, "Mighty funny, four boy young'uns, an'you ain't never named none after me." Chicken George wassurprised, delighted--and embarrassed. "You sho' right,Massa!" he exclaimed lamely. "Dat 'zactly what to name datboy--Tom! Yassuh, TornI" The massa looked gratified. Then heglanced toward the small cabin beneath a tree, his expressionserious. "How's the old man?" "Tell you de truth, Massa,middle of las' night, he had a bad coughin' spell. Dat was 'fo'dey sent Uncle Pompey down here to git me up dere whenTilda havin' de baby. But when I cooked 'im sump'n to eat dismo' run he set up an' et it all, an' swear he feel fine. He gotmad when I tol' 'im he got to stay in de bed till you say he cancome out." "Well, let the old buzzard stay in there another day,anyhow," said the massa. "Maybe I ought to get a doctor tocome down here and look him over. That bad c&ughing offand on, for long as it's been, it's no good!" "Nawsuh. But hesho' don' believe in no doctors, Massa"--"I don't care what hebelieves! But we'll see how he does the rest of the week"--Forthe next hour, Massa Lea inspected the cockerels and thestags in their fence-row pens, and finally the magnificent birdsthat Chicken George was conditioning and training. MassaLea was pleased with what he saw. Then, for a while, hetalked about the forthcoming trip. It would take almost sixweeks to reach New Orleans, he said, in the heavy newwagon he was having custom-built in Greens- boro. It wouldhave an extended bed with twelve fitted removable cockcoops, a special padded workbench for daily exercising ofbirds during travel, along with special shelves, racks, and binsthat Massa Lea had specified to hold all necessary items and

supplies for any long trips carrying gamecocks. It Would beready in ten days. When Massa Lea left. Chicken Georgeimmersed himself in the day's remaining tasks. He wasdriving the gamecocks to the limit. The massa had given himthe authority to use his own judgment in further culling out anybirds in which he discovered the slightest flaw of any sort, asonly the most comprehensively superb birds could stand achance in the level of competition awaiting them in NewOrleans. Working with the birds, he kept thinking about themusic he had been told he was going to hear in New Orleans,including big brass bands marching in the streets. The blacksailor he had met in Charleston had also said that early everySunday afternoon, thousands of people would gather in alarge public square called "Place Congo" to watch hundredsof slaves perform the dances of the African places andpeoples they had come from. And the sailor had sworn thatthe New Orleans waterfront surpassed any other he bad everseen. And the women! An unending supply of them, said thesailor, as exotic as they were willing, of every kind and color,known as "Creoles," "octoroons," and "quadroons." He couldhardly wait to get there. Late that afternoon, after havingmeant to do so several times before when some chore haddetained him, George finally knocked, then stepped on insidethe cluttered, musty cabin of Uncle Mingo. "How you feelin?"George asked. "Is it anything I can git you?" But he didn't needto wait for an answer. The old man was shockingly wan andweak--but as irritable as ever about his enforced inactivity."Git on out'n here! Go ax massa how I feelsl He know bet tern /does!" Since Uncle Mingo clearly wished to be left alone.

Chicken George did leave, thinking that Mingo was getting tobe like his leathery, pin-feathered old catch- cocks--tough oldveterans of many battles, but with age catching up and takingits toll, leaving mostly the instincts. By the time the last of thebirds had been given their extra wing-strengthening exerciseand returned to their coops, it was shortly after sundown, andChicken George at last felt free to pay at least a brief visithome. Upon reaching his cabin, delighted to find Kizzy visitingwith Matilda, he told them with much chuckling about themorning's exchange with the massa about naming the newbaby Torn. When he was through, he noticed with greatsurprise that they seemed not to be sharing his enjoyment. Itwas Matilda who spoke first, her words flat and noncommittal,"Well, I reckon lotsa Toms in dis worl'." His mammy looked asif she had just had to chew a bar of soap. "I 'speck me an'Tilda feelin' de same thing, an' she rut her spare yo' feelings'bout yo' precious massa. Ain't nothin' wrong wid de nameTorn. Jes' sho' wish it was some other Torn dis po' chile gitnamed after"--She hesitated, then added quickly, " "Co'se,dat's jes' my 'pinion--ain't my young' un or my businessi" "Well,it's de Lawd's business!" snapped Matilda, stepping acrossto get her Bible. " " Fo' de chile was born, I was hunting' in deScripture to see what it say 'bout names. Hurriedly shethumbed pages, finding the section, page, and verse shesought, and read it aloud: "De mem'ry of de jes' is blessed;but de name of de wicked shall rot!" "Have mercy!" exclaimedGran'mammy Kizzy. Chicken George rose, incensed. "Awrightden! Which one y'all gwine tell massa we ain't?" He stoodglaring at them. He was getting sick of so many goa dings

when he came in his own house! And he was fed up past thelimit with Matilda's never-ending damnation from the Bible. Heraked his mind for something he once heard, then it came."Y'all call 'im for Torn de Baptis', den!" He shouted it so loudlythat the faces of his three sons appeared in the bedroomdoorway, and the day-old infant began crying as ChickenGeorge stomped out. At that very moment, at the living roomwriting desk in the big house, Massa Lea dipped his pen, thenscrawled carefully inside his Bible's front cover a fifth date-and- birth line below the four names already recorded there--Chicken George and his first three sons: "September 20,1833... boy born to Matilda... name Torn Lea." Returningangrily down the road, George fumed that it wasn't that hedidn't care for Matilda. She was the finest, most loyal womanhe ever had met. A fine wife, however, was not necessarilyone who piously chastized her husband every time he turnedaround just for being human. A man had a right now and thento enjoy the company of the kind of women who wanted only toenjoy laughter, liquor, wit, and the body's urgencies. And fromtheir past year's travels together, he knew that Massa Lea feltthe same. After fighting their gamecocks near any sizabletown, they always stayed on an extra day, with the mules in astable and some local game cocker helper paid well to carefor the cooped birds, while he and Massa Lea went theirseparate ways. Meeting at the stable early the next morning,they would collect their gamecocks and ride on homeward,each nursing hangovers, and neither one saying a word aboutthe fact that he knew the other one had been tomcat ting It wasfive days before Chicken George's exasperation had

diminished enough for him to think about returning home.Ready to forgive them, he strode up the road to slave row andopened the cabin door. "Lawd! Is dat you, George?" saidMatilda. "De chilluns be so glad to see dey pappy again!"Specially dis one--his eyes wasn't open yet when you washere las'!" Instantly furious, he was about to stalk right backoutside when his glance fell upon his older three sons--agedfive, three, and two--huddled awkwardly together, staring athim almost fearfully. He felt an urge to grab them and hug themclose. Soon he wouldn't be seeing them for three monthswhen he went to New Orleans; he must bring them some reallynice presents. Reluctantly, he sat down at the table whenMatilda laid out a meal for him and sat down to bless the food.Then, standing back up, she said, "Virgil, go ax Gran'mammyto come over here." Chicken George stopped chewing,merely swallowing what he had in his mouth. What did the twoof them have planned to plague him with this time? Kizzyknocked and came in hugging Matilda, kissing, petting, andclucking over the three boys before glancing at her son. "Howdo? Ain't seen you so long! " "How you do. Mammy?" Thoughhe was fuming, he tried to make a weak joke of it. Settling in achair and accepting the baby from Matilda, his mammy spokealmost conversationally. "George, yo' chilluns been wantin' toax you sump'n " She turned. "Ain't you, Virgil?" ChickenGeorge saw the oldest boy hanging back. What had theyprimed him to say? "Pappy," he said finally in his piping voice,"you gwine tell us 'bout our great-gran'daddy?" Matilda's eyesreached out to him. "You's a good man, George," said Kizzysoftly. "Don't never let nobody tell you no different! An' don't

never git to feelin' we don't love you. I b'lieves maybe you gitsmixed up Trout who you is, an' sometime who we is. We's yo'blood, jes' like dese chilluns' great-gran'pappy." "It's right in deScriptures " said Matilda. Seeing George's apprehensiveglance, she added, "Everything in de Bible ain't sump'n hard.De Scriptures have plenty 'bout love." Overwhelmed withemotion. Chicken George moved his chair near the hearth.The three boys squatted down before him, their eyesglistened with anticipation, and Kizzy handed him the baby.Composing himself, he cleared his throat and began to tell hisfour sons their gran'mammy's story of their great-gran'pappy."Pappy, I knows de story, toot" Virgil broke in. Making a faceat his younger brothers, he went ahead and told it himselfincluding even the African words. "He done beared it threetimes from you, and gran'- mammy don't cross de do' sillwidout tellin' it again!" said Matilda with a laugh. Georgethought: How long had it been since he last heard his wifelaughing? Trying to recapture the center of attention, Virgiljumped up and down. "Gran'mammy say de African make usknow who we is!" "He do dat!" said Gran'mammy Kizzy,beaming. For the first time in a long time. Chicken George feltthat his cabin was his home again.

CHAPTER 98

Four weeks late, the new wagon was ready to be picked up inGreensboro. How right the massa had been to have it built.Chicken George reflected as they drove there, for they mustarrive in New Orleans not creaking and squeaking in this

battered old heap, but in the finest wagon money could buy--looking the parts of a great game cocker and his trainer. Forthe same reason, before they left Greensboro, he mustborrovy a dollar and a half from the massa to buy a new blackderby to go with the new green scarf that Matilda had almostfinished knitting. He would also make sure that Matildapacked both his green and yellow suits, his wide-webbed bestred suspenders, and plenty of shirts, drawers, socks, andhandkerchiefs, for after the cock fighting he knew he'd have tolook right when they were out on the town. Within momentsafter they arrived at the wagon maker shop, as he waitedoutside, George began hearing snatches of loud argumentbehind the closed door. He'd known the massa long enough,to expect that sort of thing, so he didn't bother to listen; he wastoo busy sifting'in his mind through the tasks he had to takecare of at home before they left. The toughest one, he knew,would be the job of culling seven more birds from the nineteenmagnificent specimens he had already trained to lethalkeenness. There was room in the wagon for only a dozen, andselecting them would challenge not only his own judgment andthe massa's but also that of Uncle Mingo, who was once againup, out, and about, as vinegary and tart-tongued as ever.Inside the shop, Massa Lea's voice had risen to a shout: Theinexcusable delay in finishing the wagon had cost him money,which should be deducted from the price. The wagon makerwas yelling back that he had rushed the job as fast as hecould, and the price should really be higher because cost ofmaterials had risen along with his free black workmen'soutrageous salary demands. Listening now. Chicken George

guessed that the massa was actually less angry than heseemed and was simply testing the wagon maker to see if anargument might succeed in cutting at least a few dollars off thecost of the wagon. After a while something must have workedout inside, for the altercation seemed to end, and soon MassaLea and the wagon maker came out, still red-faced but actingand talking now in a friendly way. The tradesman shoutedtoward the area behind his shop, and a few more minuteslater, four blacks have into view, bent nearly double pulling theheavy new custom-built wagon behind them. George's eyeswent wide at its sheer craftsmanship and beauty. He couldfeel the strength in its oaken frame and body. The centersection of the luxuriously long bed showed the tops of thetwelve removable cock coops. The iron axles and the hubswere obviously superbly balanced and greased, for despitethe vehicle's imposing weight, he could hear no creaking oreven rubbing sounds at aD. Nor had he ever seen MassaLea's face split into such a grin. "She's one of the best we'veever turned out!" exclaimed the wagon master "Nearly toopretty to drive!" Expansively, Massa Lea said, "Well, she'sabout to roll a long way!" The wagon maker head wagged."New Or- leans! That's a six-week trip. Who all's going' withyou?" Massa Lea turned, gesturing at Chicken George on theold wagon driver's seat. "My nigger there and twelvechickens!" Anticipating the massa's command. ChickenGeorge jumped down and went back to untie the pair ofrented mules they'd brought along and led them over to thenew wagon. One of the four blacks helped him hitch them up,then went back to join the others, who were paying Chicken

George no more attention than he was to them; after all, theywere free blacks, whom Massa Lee often said he couldn'tstand the sight of. After walking around the wagon a few timeswith his eyes shining and a big smile on his face, the massashook hands with the wagon maker thanked him, and climbedproudly up onto the seat of the new wagon. Wishing him goodluck, the wagon maker stood there shaking his head inadmiration for his own work as Massa Lea led the way out ofthe lot with Chicken George following in the old wagon. On thelong drive home--his new derby on the seat beside him, alongwith a pair of elegant gray felt spats that had set him back adollar--George finished his mental checklist of chores that hehad to take care of before they left for New Orleans, andstarted thinking about what had to be done to make surethings would keep running smoothly while they were gone. Asdifficult as he knew it would be to get along without him athome, he was confident that Matilda and Kizzy would be equalto the task; and though Uncle Mingo didn't get around quite asspryly anymore, and he was becoming increasingly forgetfulwith each passing year, George was sure the old man wouldbe able to mind the chickens adequately until his return. Butsooner or later, he knew he was going to need more help thanMingo would be able to offer anymore. Somehow he must finda way around his wife's and his mammy's blindness to therare opportunity he felt he could open for young Virgil,especially since at nearly six years of age the boy would soonhave to start working in the fields. During his absence, it hadoccurred to him that Virgil could be assigned to help UncleMingo with the gamecocks--and then simply kept on in the job

after they re- turned--but he had hardly brought up the ideabefore Matilda had flared, "Let massa buy somebody to help'im, den!" and Kizzy had put in hotly, "Dem chickens donestole 'enough from dis family!" Wanting no new fights withthem, he hadn't tried to force the matter, but certainly didn'tintend to see the massa possibly buy some total stranger tointrude in his and Uncle Mingo's private province. Even if themassa knew better than to bring in an outsider, though,George couldn't be sure if Virgil's help would be accepted byUncle Mingo, who seemed to be rankling more and more eversince his first helper had developed with the massa arelationship closer than his own. Only recently, in his bitternessabout not being allowed to come along with them to NewOrleans, Mingo had snapped, "You an' massa figger y'all cantrust me to feed de chickens while you's gone?" Georgewished that Uncle Mingo would realize that he had nothing todo with the massa's decisions. At the same time, hewondered why the old man wouldn't simply face the fact that atseventy-odd years of age, he just wasn't in any kind of shapeto travel for six weeks in either direction; almost surely hewould fall sick somewhere, with all of the extra problems thatwould present to him and the massa. George wished hard thathe knew some way to make Uncle Mingo feel better about thewhole thing or at least that Uncle Mingo would stop blaminghim for everything. Finally the two wagons turned off the bigroad and were rolling down the driveway. They were almosthalfway to the big house when, to his amazement, he sawMissis Lea come onto the front porch and down the steps. Amoment later, out the back door, came Miss Malizy. Then,

hurrying from their cabins, he saw Matilda and their boys,Mammy Kizzy, Sister Sarah, and Uncle Pompey. What arethey all doing here Thursday afternoon, wondered George,when they should be out in the fields? Were they so anxious tosee the fine new wagon that they had risked the massa'sanger? Then he saw their faces, and he knew that none ofthem cared anything about any new wagon. When Missis Leakept walking on to meet the massa's wagon, George reined toa halt and leaned far over from his high driver's seat to hearbetter what she said to the massa. George saw the massa'sbody jerk upright as the missis fled back toward the house.Dumfounded, George watched as Massa Lea clambereddown from the new wagon and walked slowly, heavily backtoward him. He saw the face, pale with shock--and suddenlyhe knew! The massa's words reached him as if from adistance: "Mingo's dead." Slumping sideways against thewagon seat George was bawling as he never had before. Hehardly felt the massa and Uncle Pompey half wrestling himonto the ground. Then Pompey on one side and Matilda onthe other were guiding him toward slave row with othersaround them weeping afresh at seeing his grief. Matildahelped him to lurch inside their cabin, followed by Kizzy withthe baby. When he had recovered himself, they told him whathad happened. "Y'all left Monday mornin'," said Matilda, "an'dat night nobody here slept no good. Seem like Tuesdaymorning we all got up feelin' like we'd heard whole lots a hootowls an' barkin' dogs. Den we beared de screamin'"--"WasMalizy!" exclaimed Kizzy. "Lawd, she hollered! Us all jes' flewout dere where she'd done gone to slop de hogs. An' dere he

was. Po' of soul layin' out on de road, look like some pile o'rags! " He was still alive, said Matilda, but "was jes' one sideo' his mouth movin'. I got right down close on my knees an'could jes' barely make out he was whisperin'. "B'lieve I donehad a stroke," he say. "He'p me wid de chickens... I ain't able--'" "Lawd have mercy, none us knowed what to do!" said Kizzy,but Uncle Pompey tried to lift the limp, heavy form. When hefailed, their combined efforts finally succeeded in luggingUncle Mingo back to slave row and onto Pompey's bed."George, he stunk so bad, wid dat sick smell on 'im!" saidMatilda. "We commence fannin' his face, an' he keptwhisperin', 'de chickens... got to git back--'" "Miss Malizy donerun an tol' missis by den," said Kizzy, "an' she come a-wringin'her hands an' cryin' an' carryin' on! But not 'bout Br'er Mingo!Naw! First thing she hollering was somebody better git to demchickens less'n massa have a fit! So Matilda called Virgil"--"Isho' didn't want to!" said Matilda. "You know how I feels 'boutdafc One of us 'enough down wid dem chickens. " Sides, Idone beared you talkin' 'bout stray dogs an' foxes, K evenwildcats he's roun' tryin' to eat dem birds! But bless de Chile'sheart! His eyes was bucked scairt, but he say, "Mammy, I go, Ijes' don' know what to do!" Uncle Pompey got a sack o' cornan' say, "You throw han'ful dis to any chickens you sees, an' Ibe down dere soon's I can--'" With no way to reach him andthe massa, and Sister Sarah's telling them that she fearedUncle Mingo was beyond what her roots could cure, and noteven the missis knowing how to contact any doctor, "weren'tnothin' else us could do 'cept jes' wait on y'all" they told him.Matilda began weeping, and George reached out to hold her

hand. "She cryin' 'cause when we got back in Pompey's cabinafter talkin' to the missis, Mingo gone," said Kizzy. "Lawd!Knowed it jes' to look at 'im!" She began sobbing herself. "Po'of' soul done died all by his self When Missis Lea was told,said Matilda, "she commence hollerin' she jes' don't knowwhat to do with dead peoples, 'cept she done beared massasay dey starts to rottin' if dey's kept out mon a day. She say be'way past dat 'fo' y'all git back, so us gwine have to dig a hole""Lawd!" exclaimed Kizzy. "Below de willow grove de groun'kin' o' sof. We took de shovel, Pompey an' us wimmins dugan' dug, one at de time, 'til we had a hole enough to put 'im in.We come back, den Pompey bathed im up." "He rubbedsome glycerin on 'im Miss Malizy got from missy," saidMatilda, "den sprinkled on some dat perfume you brung melas' year." "Weren't no decent clothes to put 'im in," continuedKizzy. "De ones he had on stunk too bad, an' what I'll Pompeyhave was 'way too tight, so jes' rolled 'im up in two sheets."She said Uncle Pompey then had cut two straight green limbswhile the women found old planks, and they had fashioned alitter. "Have to say for missis dat when she seen us all bearin''im over to de hole," said Matilda, "she did come a-runnin' widdey Bible. When we got 'im dere, she read some Scripture,from de Psalms, an' den I prayed, axin' de Lawd to please res'an' keep Mr. Mingo's soul"--Then they had put the body in thegrave and covered it. "We done 'im debes we could! Don'tcare if you's mad," Matilda burst out, misreading the anguishon her husband's face. Grabbing her and squeezing herfiercely, he rasped, "Nobody mad"--too stifled by his emotionsto convey in words his anger with himself and the massa for

not being there that morning. There might have beensomething they could have done to save him. A little later, heleft his cabin thinking about what concern, care, even love hadbeen shown to Uncle Mingo by those who had always claimedto dislike him so. Seeing Uncle Pompey, he walked over andwrung his hands, and they talked a little while. Nearly as old asUncle Mingo had been, Pompey said he had just come upfrom the game fowl area, leaving Virgil watching the chickens."Dat a good boy y'all got, he sho' is!" Then he said, "Whenyou goes down dere, since it ain't been no rain, you can stillsee in de dus' o' de road de crooked trail where Br'er Mingodragged his self all de way up here in de night." George didn'twant to see that. Leaving Uncle Pompey, he walked slowly tobelow the willow grove. A while passed before he could lookdirectly at the freshly mounded earth. Moving about as if in adaze, picking up some rocks, he arranged them in a designaround the grave. He felt unworthy. In order to avoid Mingo'sdust trail in the road, he cut through a field of brokencornstalks to reach the game- fowl area. "You done a goodjob. Now you better go on back up to your mammy," he said,patting Virgil roughly on the head, thrilling the boy with his firstcompliment. After he was gone, George sat down and staredat nothing, his mind tumbling with scenes from the past fifteenyears, listening to echoes of his teacher, his friend, his nearestto a father he ever had known. He could almost hear thecracked voice barking orders, speaking more gently ofgamecock- ing; complaining bitterly about being cast aside:"You an' massa figger y'all can trust me to feed de chickenswhilst y'all's gone?" George felt himself drowning in remorse.

Questions came to him: Where was Uncle Mingo from beforeMassa Lea bought him? Who had been his family? He hadnever mentioned any. Had he a wife or children somewhere?George had been the closest person in the world to UncleMingo, yet he knew so little about the man who had taught himeverything he knew. Chicken George paced: Dear God,where was the beloved old shambling companion with whomhe had so many times trod every inch of this familiar place?He stayed there alone through the next day and night. It wasSaturday morning before Massa Lea showed up. His facebleak Jand somber, he went directly to the point. "I've beenthinking through this whole thing. To start with, just burnMingo's cabin, now. That's the best way to get rid of it." A fewminutes later they stood and watched as the flamesconsumed the small cabin that for over forty years had beenhome to Uncle Mingo. Chicken George sensed that themassa had something else on his mind; he was unpreparedfor it when it came. "I've been thinking about New Orleans,"said the massa. "There's too much at stake unlesseverything's right"--He spoke slowly, almost as if he weretalking to himself. "Can't leave without somebody here to mindthese chickens. Take too much time to find somebody, maybehave to teach them to boot. No point in me going' by myself,that much driving and twelve birds to look after. No pointgoing' to a' chicken fight unless you aim to win. Just foolish tomake the trip now"--Chicken George swallowed. All thosemonths of planning... all the massa's spending... all of themassa's hopes to join the South's most elite game cockingcircles... those birds so magnificently trained to beat anything

with wings. Swallowing a second time, he said, "Yassuh."

CHAPTER 99

Working by himself down there with the game fowl was sostrange and lonely that Chicken George wondered how in theworld Uncle Mingo had managed to do it for over twenty-fiveyears before he came to join him. "When massa bought me,"the old man had told him, "an' de flock got to growin', he keptsayin' he gwine buy me some he'p, but he never did, an' Ireckon I jes' fin' out chickens maybe better company clanpeoples is." Though George felt that he, too, loved the birdsabout as much as any man could, with him they could nevertake the place of people. But he needed someone to helphim, he told himself, not to keep him company. As far as hewas concerned, Virgil still seemed the most sensible choice. Itwould keep things all in the family, and he could train the boyjust as Uncle Mingo had trained him. But since he wasn'tanxious to deal with Matilda and Kizzy in order to get him,George tried to think of some game fowl trainer acquaintancewhom he might be able to persuade the massa to buy awayfrom his present owner. But he knew that any real gamecocker massa would have to be in some truly desperate fix formoney to even think about selling his trainer, especially tosuch a competitor as Massa Lea. So he began consideringblack hack fighters but a good half of them were trainers likehimself fighting their massa's cull birds; and most of theothers, like their birds, were third-raters or shady characterswho fought very good birds that had been suspiciously

acquired. There were a number of free-black hack fighters hehad seen who were really good, and were available for hire bythe day, the week, the month, or even the year, but he knewthere was no way Massa Lea would ever permit even the bestfree- black trainer in North Carolina on his place. So Georgehad no choice. And finally one evening he mustered his nerveto bring it up at home. " Fo' you tells me ag'in why you won'tstan' fo' it, woman, you listen to me. Nex' time massa want meto travel wid 'im somewhere, dat's when he sho' gwine say"Go git datoldes' young' un of your'n down here!" An' once dathappen, Virgil be wid chickens to stay, less'n massa saydifferent, which might be never, an' you or me neither can't saya mumblin" word"--He gestured to stop Matilda frominterrupting. "Wait! Ain't wantin' no back talk! I'se tryin' to gityou to see de boy need to come on down dere now. If'n / bring'im, den he can stay jes' long 'enough fo' me to teach 'im howto feed de birds when I has to leave, an' he'p me exercise 'emdurin' trainin' season. Den res' de time, mos' de year, he canbe wid y'all in de fiel'." Seeing Matilda's tight expression, heshrugged elaborately and said with mock resignation,"Awright, I jes' leave it up to you an' massa, den!" "What gitme is you talk like Virgil grown awready," said Matilda. "Don'you realize dat chile ain't but six years of '? Jes' half de twelveyou was when dey drug you off down dere." She paused. "ButI knows he got to work now he's six. So reckon can't do nothin''cept what you says, much as I jes' gits mad every time I thinks'bout how dem chickens stole you!" "Anybody listen to you anmammy! Y'all sound' like chickens done snatched me up an'off 'crost de ocean somewheres "Jes' well's to, mos' de time,

much as you's gone." "Gone! Who settin' up here talkin' toyou? Who been here every day dis month?" "Dis monthmaybe, but where you gwine be 'fo' long?" "If you's talkin' 'boutde fightin' season, I be wherever massa tell me we's gwine. Ifyou talkin' 'bout right now, soon's I eats, I sho' ain't gwine sethere 'til some varmints creeps roun' down dere an' eats somechickens, or den I really be gone!" "Oh! You's finally 'greein'he'd sell you, tool" "I b'lieves he sell missis, she let hischickens git et!" "Look," she said, "we done got by widout nobig fallin' out 'bout Virgil, so let's sho' don't start none 'boutnothin' else." "I ain't arguin' in de firs' place, it's you de one!""Awright, George, I'se through wid it," Matilda said, settingsteaming bowls on the table. "Jes' eat yo' supper an' git onback, an' I sen' Virgil down dere in de mornin'. Less'n youwants to take 'im back wid you now. I can go git 'im from overat 'is gran'mammy's." "Naw, tomorrow be fine." But within aweek it became clear to Chicken George that his eldest sonlacked totally what had been his own boyhood fascination withgame birds Six years old or not, it seemed inconceivable toGeorge that after completing an assigned task, Virgil wouldeither wander off and play alone, or just sit down somewhereand do nothing. Then Virgil would leap up as his father angrilyexclaimed. "Git up from dere! What you think dis is? Deseain't no pigs down dere, dese fightin' chickens!" Then Virgilwould do acceptably well whatever new task he was set to, butthen once more, as George watched from the corner of hiseye, he would see his son soon either sitting down again orgoing off to play. Fuming, he remembered how, as a boy, hehad spent what little free time he had scampering around

admiring the cockerels and the stags, plucking grass andcatching grasshoppers to feed them, finding it all incrediblyexciting. Though Uncle Mingo's way of training had been cooland businesslike--an order given, a watchful silence, thenanother order--George decided to try another approach withVirgil in hopes that he'd snap out of it He'd talk to him. "Whatyou been doin' wid yo'self up yonder?" "Nothin', Pappy." "Well,is you an' de other young'uns git ting 'long all right an' mindin'yo' mammy an' gran'mammy?" "Yassuh." "Reckon dey feedsyou pretty good, huh?" "Yassuh." "What you like to eatdemos7' " Anythin' Mammy cooks us, yassuh. " The boyseemed to lack even the faintest imagination. He'd try adifferent tack. "Lemme hear you tell de story 'bout yo' great-gran'daddy like you done once." Virgil obediently did so,rather woodenly. George's heart sank. But after standing therethoughtfully for a moment, the boy asked, "Pappy, is you seedmy great-gran'pappy?" "Naw, I ain't," he replied hopefully. "Iknows 'bout 'im same as you does, from yo' gran'mammy.""She used to ride in de buggy wid 'imi" "Sho' she did! It washer pappy. Jes' like one dese days you tell yo' chilluns youused to set down here 'mongst de chickens wid yo' pappy."That seemed to confuse Virgil, who fell silent After a few moresuch lame efforts, George reluctantly gave up, hoping that he'dhave better luck with Ashford, George, and Torn. Withoutcommunicating to anyone his disappointment in Virgil, heregretfully decided to use the boy for the simple part-timeduties he had discussed with Matilda, rather than try futilely totram him as a full-time permanent helper as he had actuallyintended. So when Chicken George felt Virgil had mastered

the task of feeding and watering the cockerels and stags intheir pens three times daily, he sent him back up to Matilda tobegin working with them in the fields--which seemed to suitthe boy just fine. Chicken George would never have breathedit to Matilda, Kizzy, or the others, but George had always felt adeep disdain for field work, which he saw as nothing morethan a ceaseless drudge of wielding hoes under hot sun,dragging cotton sacks picking endless tobacco worms, andbeating cornstalks down for fodder, in relentless seasonalsuccession. With a chuckle he remembered Uncle Mingo'ssaying, "Gimme a good corn or cotton field or a good fightin'bird, I'll take de bird every time!" It was exhilarating just to thinkof how anywhere a cockfight had been announced--if it was ina woods, an open cow pasture, or behind some massa'sbarn--the very air would become charged as game cockersbegan converging on it with their birds raucously crowing intheir lust to win or die. In this summertime off-season, with thegamecocks moulting off their old feathers, there was onlyroutine work to be done, and Chicken George graduallybecame accustomed to not having anyone around to talk with,except for the chickens--in particular the pin feathered veterancatch cock that had been practically Uncle Mingo's pet. "Youcould o' tol' us how sick he was, you of' walleyed devil!" he toldthe old bird one afternoon, at which it cocked its head for asecond, as if aware that it was being addressed, and thenwent on pecking and scratching in its ever-hungry way. "Youhears me talkin' to you!" George said with amiable gruffness."You must o' knowed he was real bad off!" For a while he lethis eyes idly follow the foraging bird. "Well, I reckon you knows

he's gone now. I wonders if you's missin' de of' man de way Iis." But the old catch cock pecking and scratching away,seemed not to be missing anyone, and finally ChickenGeorge sent him squawking off with a tossed pebble. Inanother year or so, George reflected, the old bird will probablyjoin Uncle Mingo wherever it is that old game- cockers andtheir birds go when they die. He wondered what had everhappened to the massa's very first bird--that twenty-five-centraffle-ticket gamecock that had gotten him started more thanforty years ago. Did it finally catch a fatal gaff? Or did it die anhonored catch cock death of old age? Why hadn't he everasked Uncle Mingo about that? He must remember to ask themassa. Over forty years back! The massa had told him hewas only seventeen when he had won the bird. That wouldmake him around fiftysix or fifty-seven now--around thirty yearsolder than Chicken George. Thinking of the massa, and ofhow he owned people, as well as chickens, all their lives, hefound himself pondering what it must be like not to belong tosomeone. What would it feel like to be "free" It must not be allthat good or Massa Lea, like most whites, wouldn't hate freeblacks so much. But then he remembered what a free blackwoman who had sold him some white lightning in Greensborohad told him once. "Every one us free show y'all plantationniggers livin' proof dat jes' being' a nigger don' mean you haveto be no slave. Yo' massa don' never want you thinkin' 'boutdat." During his long solitudes in the game fowl area. ChickenGeorge began to think about that at length. He decided hewas going to strike up conversation with some of the freeblacks he always saw but had always ignored when he and

the massa went to the cities. Walking along the split-rail fence,feeding and watering the cockerels and stags. ChickenGeorge enjoyed as always the stags' immature cluckingangrily at him, as if they were rehearsing their comingsavagery in the cockpits. He found himself thinking a lot aboutbeing owned. One afternoon, while he was on one of hisperiodic inspections of the birds that were maturing out on therange- walk, he decided to amuse himself by trying out hisnearly perfect imitation of a challenging cock's crow. Almostalways in the past, it would bring instantly forth a furiousdefender crowing angrily in reply and jerking its head this wayand that in search of the intruding rival he was sure he had justheard. Today was no exception. But the magnificentgamecock that burst from the underbrush in response to hiscall stood beating its wings explosively against its body foralmost halfa minute before its crow seemed to shatter theautumn afternoon. The bright sunlight glinted off its iridescentplumage. Its carriage was powerful and ferocious, from theglittering eyes to the stout yeuow legs with their lethal spurs.Every ounce, every inch of it symbolized its boldness, spirit,and freedom so dramatically that Chicken George left vowingthis bird must never be caught and trained and trimmed. Itmust remain there with its hens among the pines--untouchedand freel CHAPTER 100 The new cock fighting season wasfast approaching, but Massa Lea hadn't mentioned NewOrleans. Chicken George hadn't really expected him to;somehow he had known that trip was never going to happen.But he and the massa made a very big impression at the local"mains" when they showed up in their gleaming, custom-built,

twelve-coop wagon. And their luck was running good. MassaLea averaged almost four wins out of five, and George, usingthe best of the culls, did just about as well in the CaswellCounty hack fights It was a busy season as well as aprofitable one, but George happened to be home again whenhis fifth son was born late that year. Matilda said she wantedto name this one James. She said, "James somehow not heralways been my fav'rite 'mongst all de Disciples." ChickenGeorge agreed, with a private grimace. Wherever he andMassa Lea traveled for any distance now, it seemed that hewould hear of increasing bitterness against white people. Ontheir most recent trip, a free black had told George aboutOsceola, chief of the Seminole Indians in the state calledFlorida. When white men recaptured Osceola's black wife, anescaped slave, he had organized a war party of two thousandSeminoles and escaped black slaves to track and ambush adetachment of the U. S. Army. Over a hundred soldiers werekilled, according to the story, and a much larger Army forcewas hard after Osceola's men, who were running, hiding, andsniping from their trails and recesses in the Florida swamps.And the cockfight season of 1836 hadn't long ended whenChicken George heard that at someplace called "The Alamo,"a band of Mexicans bad massacred a garrison of whiteTexans, including a woodsman named Davy Crock- ett, whowas famous as a friend and defender of the Indians. Later thatyear, he heard of greater white losses to the Mexicans, undera General Santa Anna, who was said to boast of himself asthe greatest cock fighter in the world; if that was true, Georgewondered why he'd never heard of him till now. It was during

the spring of the next year when George returned from a trip totell slave row still another extraordinary piece of news. "Donebeared it from de co'thouse janitor nigger at de county seat,dat new Pres'dent Van Buren done ordered de Army to driveall de Indians wes' de Mis'sippi River!" "Soun' for sho' nowlike gwine be dem Indians' River Jordan!" said Matilda. "Dat'swhat Indians git ting for lettin' in white folks in dis country, in defirs' place," said Uncle Pompey. "Whole heap o' folks, 'cludin'me till I got grown, ain't knowed at firs' weren't nobody in discountry but Indians, fishin' an' hunting' an' fightin' one not herjes' mindin' dey own business. Den here come 1'il of' boat o'white folks a-wavin' an' grinnin'. "Hey, y'all red mens! How'bout let us come catch'" ' a bite an a nap 'mongst y'all an' le'sbe friends! " Huh! I betcha now days dem Indians wish dey'smade dat boat look like a porcupine wid dey arrows!" Afterthe massa attended-the next Caswell County landholders'meeting. Chicken George came back with still more newsabout the Indians. "Hear tell it's a Gen'l Win- field Scott donewarned 'em dat white folks being' Christians ain't wantin' toshed no mo' Indians' blood, so dem wid any sense best tohurry up an' git to movin'l Hear tell if a Indian even look like hewanted to fight, de sojers shot 'im in 'is tracks! An' den deArmy commence drivin' jes' thou san dem Indians towardsomewheres called Oklahoma. Say ain't no tellin' how manylong de way was kilt or took sick an' died"--"Jes' evil, evil!"exclaimed Matilda. But there was some good news, too--onlythis time it was waiting for him when he got home from one ofhis trips in 1837: His sixth son in a row was born. Matildanamed him Lewis, but after finding out where she got the

name for James, Chicken George decided not even to inquirewhy. Less exuberant than she'd been at the birth of eachprevious grandchild, Kizzy said, "Look like to me y'all ain'tgwine never have nothin' but boys!" "Mammy Kizzy, bad asI'se layin up here hurtin an' you soundin' disappointed!" criedMatilda from the bed. "Ain't neither! I loves my gran'boys an'y'all knows it. But jes' seem like y'all could have one gal!"Chicken George laughed. "We git right to work on a gal foryou. Mammy! " "You git out'n here!" exclaimed Matilda. Butonly a few months passed before a look at Matilda made itclear that George intended to be a man of his word. "Hmph!Sho' can tell when dat man been spendin reglar time home!"commented Sister Sarah. "Seem like he wuss'n demroosters!" Miss Malizy agreed. When her pains of labor cameonce again, the waiting, pacing George heard--amid hiswife's anguished moans and cries--his mother's yelps of"Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Jesus!," and he needed nofurther advisement that at last he had fathered a girl. Evenbefore the baby was cleaned off, Matilda told her mother-in-law that she and George had agreed years before mat theirfirst girl would be named Kizzy. "Ain't done lived in vain!"Gran'mammy cried at intervals throughout the rest of the day.Nothing would do for her then but that the following afternoonChicken George would come up from the game fowl area andtell once again about the African great gran'pappy Kunta Kintefor the six boys and the infant Kizzy in his lap. One night abouttwo months later, with all of the children finally asleep, Georgeasked, " Tilda, how much money is we got saved up?" Shelooked at him, surprised. "L'il over a hunnud dollars." "Dat all?

" "Dat all! It's a wonder it's dat much! Ain't I been tellin' you alldese years de way you spends ain't hardly no point even dono talkin' 'bout no savin'!" "Awright, awright," he said guiltily.But Matilda pursued the point. "Not countin' what you winnedan' spent what I ain't never seed, which was yo' business, youwant to guess 'bout how much you done give me to save sincewe been married, den you borrowin' back?" "Awright, howmuch?" Matilda paused for effect. "Twixt three-fo' thousandollars." "Wheeeew!" he whistled. "I is?" Watching hisexpression change, she sensed that she had never observedhim grow more serious in all their twelve years together. "Offdown yonder by myself so much," he said finally, "I beenthinkin' 'bout whole heap o' things"--He paused. She thoughthe seemed almost embarrassed by whatever he was about tosay. "One thing I been thinkin', if'n us could save 'enoughdesenex' comin' years, maybe us could buy ourselves free."Matilda was too astounded to speak. He gestured impatiently."I wish you git yo' pencil to figger some, an' quit buckin' yo'eyes at me like you ain't got no sense!" Still stunned, Matildagot her pencil and a piece of paper and sat back down at thetable. "Trouble to start wid," he said, "jes' can't do aothin' butguess roun' what massa'd ax for us all. Me an' you an' depassel o' young'uns. Start wid you. Roun' de county seat, Iknows men fiel' ban's is bringin' 'bout a thou san dollarsapiece. Wimmins is worth less, sole call you 'bout eighthunnud"Getting up, bending to inspect Matilda's movingpencil, he sat back down. "Den let's say massa let us have ourchilluns, all eight, 'bout three hunnud apiece"--"Ain't but seb'n!"said Matilda, "Dat new one you say started in yo' belly ag'in

make eight!" "Oh!" she said, smiling. She figured at length."Dat make twenty-fo' hunnud"--"Jes' for chilluns?" His tonemingled doubt with outrage. Matilda refigured. "Eight threes istwenty-fo'. Plus de eight hunnud fo' me, dat make 'zactly thirtyhunnud--dat's same as three thou san "Wheeeew!" "Don'tcarry on so yet! De big one you!" She looked at him. "Howmuch you figger fo' you?" Serious as it was, he couldn't resistasking, "What you think I'se worth?" "If I'd o' knowed, I'd o'tried to buy you from massa myself." They both laughed."George, I don' even know how come we's talkin' sich as dis,nohow. You know good an' well massa ain't gwine never sellyou!" He didn't answer right away. But then he said, " Tilda, Iain't never mentioned dis, reckon since I know you don't hardlyeven like to hear massa's name called. But I betcha twenty-five different times, one or not her he done talk to me 'boutwhenever he git 'enough together to buil' de fine big house hewant, wid six columns crost de front, he say him an' missiscould live off'n what de crops make, an' he 'speck he be gitting out'n de chicken-fightin' business, he say he steady gitting too of to keep puttin' up wid all de worries." "I have to seedat to blievc it, George. Him or you neither ain't gwine nevergive up messin' wid chickens!" "I'm tellin' you what he sayl Ifyou can listen! Looka here. Uncle Pompey say massa 'boutsixty-three years of' right now. Give 'im another five, six years--it ain't easy fo' no real of' man to keep runnin' here an' yonderfightin' no birds! I didn't pay 'im much 'tendon neither till I keptthinkin' dat, yeah, he really might let us buy ourselves, an'specially if we be payin' him 'enough would he'p 'im buil' datbig house he want" "Hmph," Matilda grunted without

conviction. "Awright, let's talk 'bout it. What you reckon he'dwant for you?" "Well"--His expression seemed to mingle pridein one way and pain in another at what he was about to say."Well--nigger buggy driver o' dat rich Massa Jewett done swo'up an' down to me one time dat he overheard his massa tellin'somebody he'd offered Massa Lea fo' thou san dollars fo'me"--"Whooooooee!" Matilda was flabbergasted. "See, youain't never knowed de valuable nigger you sleeps wid!" Butquickly he was serious again. "I don't really b'lieve dat nigger. I'speck he jes' made up dat lie tryin' to see if I'd be fool 'enoughto swallow it. Anyhow, I go by what's git ting paid now days forniggers wid debes trades, like de carpenters an' blacksmiths,sich as dem. Dey's sellin' twix two-three thou san I knows datfo' a fac'"--He paused, peering at her waiting pencil. "Putdown three thou san"--He paused again. "How much dat be?"Matilda figured. She said then that the total estimated cost tobuy their family would be sixty-two hundred dollars. "But what "bout Mammy Kizzy? " "I git to Mammy!" he said impatiently.He thought. "Mammy git ting pretty of' now, dat he'p her costless"--"Dis year she tumin' fifty," said Matilda. "Put down sixhunnud dollars." He watched the pencil move. "Now what dat?" Matilda's face strained with concentration. "Now it's sixty-eight hunnud dollars." "Whew! Sho' make you start to seeniggers is money to white folks." George spoke very slowly."But I 'dare I b'lieves I can hack fight an' do it. "Cose, gon'mean waitin' an' savin' up a long time"--He noticed thatMatilda seemed discomfited. "I knows right what's on yo'mind," he said. "Miss Malizy, Sister Sarah, an' UnclePompey." Matilda looked grateful that he knew. He said,

"Dey's family to me even 'fo' dey was to you"--"Lawd,George!" she exclaimed, "jes' don't see how jes' one mans'posed to be tryin' to buy ever' body but I sho' jes' couldn'twalk off an' leave dem!" "We got plenty time, Tilda. Let's usjes' cross dat bridge when we gits to it." "Dat's de truth, youright." She looked down at the figures that she had written."George, I jes' can't hardly believe we's talkin' 'bout what weis" She felt herself beginning to dare to believe it, that the twoof them, together, were actually engaging for the first time in amonumental family discussion. She felt an intense urge tospring around the table and embrace him as tightly as shecould. But she felt too much to move--or even speak for a fewmoments. Then she asked, "George, how come you got tothinkin' dis?" He was quiet for a moment. "I got by myself, anseem like I jes' got to thinkin' mo', like I tol' you"--"Well," shesaid softly, "sho' is nice." "We ain't git ting nowhere!" heexclaimed. "AH we ever doin' is git ting massa somewhere!"Matilda felt like shouting "Jubilee!" but made herself keep still."I been talkin' wid free niggers when me an' massa go tocities," George went on. "Dey say de free niggers up Nawth isdebes off. Say dem lives 'mongst one not her in dey ownhouses, an' gits good jobs. Well, I know I can git me a job!Plenty cock fighting up Nawth! Even famous cock fightingniggers I'se beared live right in dat New York City, a UncleBilly Roger, a Uncle Pete what got a big flock an' own a greatbig gamblin joint, an' another one call "Nigger Jackson' deysay don't nobody beat his birds, hardly!" He further astoundedMatilda. "An' not her thing--I wants to see our young'uns leaming to read an' write, like you can." "Lawd, bet tern me, I

hope!" Matilda exclaimed, her eyes shining. "An' I wants 'emto learn trades." Abruptly he grinned, pausing for effect. "Howyou reckon you look settin' in yo' own house, yo' own stuffedfurniture, an' all dem 1'il knickknacks? How 'bout Miss Tilda beaxin' de other free nigger womens over for tea in de mornin's,an' y'all jes' settin' roun' talkin' 'bout 'rangin' y'all's flowers, ansich as dat?" Matilda burst into nearly shrieking laughter."Lawd, man, you is jes' crazy!" When she stopped laughing,she felt more love for him than she'd ever felt before. "I reckonde Lawd is done give me what I needs dis night." Eyeswelling, she put her hand on his. "You really think we can do it,George?" "What you think I'se been settin' up here talkin''bout, woman?" "You 'member de night we 'greed to marry,what I tol' you?" His face said that he didn't. "I tol' you sump'nout'n de first chapter o' Ruth. Tol' you, "Wither thou goes', I willgo, an' where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be mypeople--' You don't 'member me sayin' dat?" "Yeah, I reckon.""Well, I ain't never felt dat way more'n I does right now."

CHAPTER 101

Removing his derby with one hand, with the other ChickenGeorge held out to Massa Lea a small water pitcher thatlooked as if it were woven tightly of thick strands of wire. "Myboy, Torn, de one we done name for you, Massa, he donemade dis for his gran'mammy, but I jes' want you to see it."Looking dubious, Massa Lea took the pitcher by its carvedcow horn handle and gave it a cursory inspection. "Uh-huh,"he grunted noncommittally. George realized that he'd have to

try harder. "Yassuh, made datout'n jes' of' rusty scrap barbwire, Massa. Built 'im a real hot charcoal fire an' kept bendin'an' meltin' one wire 'against not her 'til he got de shape, dengive it a kin' o' brazin' all over. Dat Torn always been realhandy, Massa"--He halted again, wanting some response, butnone came. Seeing that he'cThave to reveal his real intentwithout gaining the tactical advantage of some advancepositive reaction to Tom's craftsmanship, George took theplunge. "Yassuh, dis boy been so proud o' carryin' yo' name allhis life, Massa, us all really blieves he jes' git de chance, hemake you a good blacksmith"--An instantly disapprovingexpression came upon Massa Lea's face, as if by reflex, andit fueled George's determination not to fail Matilda and Kizzyin his promise to help Torn. He saw that he'd have to makewhat he knew would be the strongest appeal to Massa Lea--picturing the financial advantages. "Massa, every year moneyyou's spendin' on blacksmith- in' you could be savin'! Ain'tnone us never tol' you how Torn awready been savin' yousome, sharpenin' hoe blades an' sickles an' different othertools--well as fixin' lot o' things gits broken roun' here. ReasonI brings it up, when you sent me over for dat Isaiah niggerblacksmith to put de new wheel rims on de wagon, he wastellin' me Massa Askew been years promisin' him a helper dathe need real bad, much work as he doin' to make money fo'his massa. He tol' me he sho' be glad to make a blacksmithout'n any good boy he could git holt of, so I thought right 'way'bout Torn. If he was to learn, Massa, ain't jes' he could doever' thing we needs roun' here, but he could be takin' in workto make you plenty money jes' like dat Isaiah nigger doin' for

Massa Askew." George felt sure he'd struck a nerve, but hecouldn't be sure, for the massa carefully showed no sign."Looks to me this boy of yours is spending more time makingthis kind of stuff instead of working,"said Massa Lea, thrustingthe metal pitcher back into George's hands. "Torn ain't misseda day since he started workin in yo' fiel's, Massa! He do sichas dis jes' on Sundays when he off! Ever since he been anysize, seem like he got fixin' an' makin' things in 'is bloodiEvery Sunday he out in dat 1'il of lean-to shed he done fixedhis self behin' de barn, a-bum- in' an' bangin' on sump'n nother Fact, we's been scairt he 'sturb you an' de missis. " "Well,I'll think about it," Massa Lea said, turning abruptly andwalking away, leaving Chicken George standing thereconfused and frustrated--purposely, he felt sure--holding themetal pitcher. Miss Malizy was seated in the kitchen peelingturnips when the massa walked in. She half turned around, nolonger springing to her feet as she would have done in yearspast, but she didn't think he'd mind, since she had reachedthat point in age and service where some small infractionscould be permitted. Massa Lea went straight to the point."What about this boy named Torn?" Torn? You means Tilda'sTorn, Massa? " "Well, how many Toms out there? You knowthe one I mean, what about him?" Miss Malizy knew exactlywhy he was asking. Just a few minutes before, Gran'mammyKizzy had told her of Chicken George's uncertainty about howMassa Lea had reacted to his proposal. Well, now she knew.But her opinion of young Torn was so high--and not justbecause he'd made her new S-curved pothooks--that shedecided to hesitate a few seconds before answering, in order

to sound impartial. "Well," she said finally, "a body wouldn'tpick 'im out of a crowd to talk to, Massa, 'cause de boy ain'tnever been much wid words. But I sho' can tell you fo' fac' hede smartes' young' un out dere, an' de good est o' dem bigboys, to boot!" Miss Malizy paused meaningfully. "An' I speckhe gwine grow up to be mo' man in whole lot o' ways clan hispappy is." "What are you talking about? What kind of ways?""Jes' man ways, Massa. Mo' solid, an' 'pendable, an' not fo' nofoolishness no kin' o' way, an' like dat. He gwine be de kin' o'man make some woman a mighty good hus- ban'." "Well, Ihope he hasn't got matin' on his mind," said Massa Lea,probing, " 'cause I just permitted it with that oldest one--what'shis name?" "Virgil, Massa." "Right. And every weekend he'srunnm' off to bed down with her over at the Curry plantationwhen he ought to be here workin'l" "Nawsuh, not Torn. He tooyoung for sich as daton his min', an' I 'speck he won't be tooquick 'bout it even when he git grown, leas' not 'til he fin' jes'de right gal he want" "You're too old to know about youngbucks nowadays," said Massa Lea. "Wouldn't surprise me ifone left my plow and mule in the field to go chasm' some gal."" Gree wid you if you talkin' 'bout dat Ashford, Massa, 'causehe took to woman chasin' jes' like his pappy. But Torn jes' ain'tdat kin', data ll "Well, all right. If I go on what you say, the boysounds like he might be fit for something." "Go on what any ussay " bout him, Massa. " Miss Malizy concealed her jubilation."Don' know what you axin' 'bout Torn fo', but he sho' de pick o'dem big boys." Massa Lea broke the news to ChickenGeorge five days later. "I've worked out an arrangement toboard your Torn over at the Askew plantation," he announced

solemnly, "for a three-year apprenticeship with that niggerblacksmith Isaiah." George was so elated that it was all hecould do to keep from picking up the massa and spinning himaround. Instead, he just grinned from ear to ear and began tosputter his appreciation. "You'd better be right about that boy,George. On the strength of your assurances, I recommendedhim very highly to Massa Askew. If he isn't as good as you say,111 have him back here so fast it'll make your head spin, andif he gets out of line, if he betrays my trust in any way, 111 takeit out of your hide as his. Do you understand?" "He won't letyou down, Massa. You got my promise on dat. Dat boy a chipoff de of' block." "That's what I'm afraid of. Have him packedand ready to leave in the mornin'." "Yassuh." An' thank you,suh. You won't never regret it. " Racing up to slave row assoon as the massa was gone, Chicken George was so nearto bursting with pride in his achievement when he told themthe great news that he didn't see the wry smiles exchanged byMatilda and Kizzy, who had been the ones responsible forurging him to approach the massa in the first place. Soon hestood in the doorway hollering, "TornI TornI You TornI" "Yaaay,Pappy!" His reply came from behind the barn. "Boy, c'merel"A moment later Tom's mouth was open as wide as his eyes.The incredible news had come as a total surprise--for theyhadn't wanted him to be disappointed if the effort hadn'tworked. But as overjoyed as he was, their heapedcongratulations so embarrassed him that Torn got backoutside as quickly as he could--partly to give himself thechance to realize that his dream had actually come true. Hehadn't noticed while he was in the cabin that his little sisters,

Kizzy and Mary, had scampered outside and breathlesslyspread the news among their brothers. The lanky Virgil wasjust trotting up from his chores in the barn before leaving forthe plantation of his recent bride; he merely gruntedsomething noncommittal under his breath and hurried on pastTorn, who smiled, since Virgil had been in a daze ever sincehe had jumped the broom. But Torn tensed when he sawstocky, powerful eighteen- year-old Ashford approaching,trailed by their younger brothers James and Lewis. Afternearly a lifetime of unaccountable hostility between him andAshford, Torn wasn't surprised at his snarling bitterness. "Youalways been dey pet! Butterin' up eve' body so you gits defavors! Now you gwine off laughin' at us still in de fiel'!" Hemade a swift feint as if to strike Torn, drawing gasps fromJames and Lewis. "I'm. gon' git you yet, jes' watch!" AndAshford stalked off, Torn staring levelly after him, certain thatsomeday he and Ashford were going to have a showdown.

What Torn heard from

"L'il George" was another kind of bitterness. "Sho' wish I wasyou git ting 'way from here, 'fo' pappy work me to death downdere! Jes' 'cause I got his name, he figger I'se s'posed to becrazy as be is 'bout chickens. I hates dem stinkin' things!" Asfor the ten-year-old Kizzy -and eight-year-old Mary, havingspread the news, they now trailed Torn around the rest of theafternoon, their shy looks making it clear that he was theiradored and favorite big brother. The next morning, afterseeing Torn off in the mule cart with Virgil, Kizzy, Sister Sarah,

and Matilda had just begun the day's chopping in the fieldwhen Gran'mammy Kizzy observed, "Anybody seen us all updere snifflin' an' cryin' an' gwine on would o' thought we weren'tgwine never see dat chile ag'in." "Hmph! No mo' chile,honey!" exclaimed Sister Sarah. "Dat Torn de nex' man roun'dis place!"

CHAPTER 102

With a special traveling pass supplied by Massa Lea, Virgilhad hung a lantern on the mule cart and driven it through thenight before Thanksgiving in order to get Torn home from theAskew plantation in time for the big dinner, after an absenceof nine months. As the cart rolled back into the Lea drivewayin the chilly November afternoon and Virgil quickened themule to a brisk trot, Torn had to press back tears as thefamiliar slave row came into view and he saw all of thosewhom he had missed so much standing there waiting for him.Then they began waving and shouting, and moments later,grasping his bag of the gifts that he had made with his ownhands for each of them, he jumped to the ground amid thehuggings and kissings of the womenfolk. "Bless 'is heart!"..."He look so good!".. "Don't he now! See how dem shouldersan' arms done filled out!"... "Gran'mammy, leave me kissTomi"... "Don't squeeze 'im all day, lemme git holt of 'im too,chile!" Over their shoulders, Torn caught a glimpse of his twoyounger brothers, James and Lewis, wearing awedexpressions; he knew that L'il George was down among thegamecocks with his father, and Virgil had told him that Ashford

had gotten the massa's permission to visit a girl on anotherplantation. Then he saw the usually bedridden Uncle Pompeysitting outside his cabin in an old cane chair, bundled in aheavy quilt. As soon as he could maneuver clear, Torn hurriedover to shake the old man's puffy, trembling hand, bendingcloser to hear the cracked and almost whispery voice. "Jes'wants to make sho' you's really back to see us, boy"--"Yassuh,Uncle Pompey, mighty glad to git backl" "Awright, see youlater on," the old man quavered. Torn was having trouble withhis emotions. In his now sixteen years, not only had he neverbeen treated so much like a man, but also he had neverbefore felt such an outpouring of his slave-row family's loveand respect. His two little sisters were still pulling andclamoring over him when they heard a familiar voicetrumpeting in the distance. "Lawd, here come Mr. Rooster!"exclaimed Matilda, and the women went scurrying to set theThanksgiving meal on the table. When Chicken George camestriding into the slave-row area, seeing Torn, he beamed."Well, look what done got loose an' come home!" He clappedTorn heavily across the shoulders with his hand. "Is you makin'any money yet?" "Nawsuh, not yet, Pappy." "What kin' ofblacksmith you is ain't makin' no money?" demanded Georgein mock astonishment. Torn remembered that he had alwaysfelt caught in a windstorm whenever closely exposed to hisfather's bombastic way of expressing himself. "Long ways yetfrom being no blacksmith. Pappy, jes' tryin' to learn," he said."Well, you tell dat Isaiah nigger I say hurry up an' learn yousump'n!" "Yassuh," said Torn mechanically, his mind flashingthat he could probably never master even so much as half of

what Mr. Isaiah was patiently making every effort to help himlearn. He asked, "Ain't L'il George comin' up here fo' dinner?""He might git here in time, an he might not," said ChickenGeorge. "He too lazy to finish what I give 'im to do firs' thingdis mornin', an' I tol' 'im I don't want to see his face up here 'tilhe git it done!" Chicken George was moving over to Uncle.Pompey "Sho' glad to see you out'n yo' cabin. Uncle Pompey.How's you doin'?" "Poly, son, mighty poly. OF man jes' ain't nomo' good, data ll "Don't give me dat stuff, nary bit!" boomedChicken George, and laughing, he turned to Torn, "Yo' of'Uncle Pompey one dem of' lizard kin' o' niggers gwine live tobe a hunnud! Done got real low sick reckon two, three timessince you been gone, but every time de wimminfolks allsnimin' ready to bury 'im, he git right back up ag'in!" The threeof them were laughing when the voice of Gran'mammy Kizzyshrilled at them, "Y'all bring Pompey on over here to de tablenow!" Though the day was crisp, the women had set up a longtable under the chinquapin tree so that everybody could enjoytheir Thanksgiving dinner together. James and Lewis seizedUncle Pompey's chair, with Sister Sarah running upsolicitously behind them. "Don' drop 'im, now, he still ain't tooof' to fan y'all's britches!" called Chicken George. When theywere all seated, though Chicken George was at the head ofthe table, it was pointedly to Torn that Matilda said, "Son,grace de table." The startled Torn wished he had anticipatedthis, to have given advance thought to some prayer that wouldexpress the emotions he was feeling about the warmth andstrength of a family. But with everyone's head already bowed,all he could think of now was, "0 Lawd, bless dis food we's

'bout to eat, we ax in de name de Father, de Son, an' de HolyGhos'. Amen." "Amen!... Amen!" others echoed up and downthe table. Then Matilda, Gran'mammy Kizzy, and Sister Sarahbegan shuttling back and forth, setting heaped and steamingbowls and platters at intervals along the table, and urging all tohelp themselves, before they also finally sat back down. Forseveral minutes not a word was spoken as everyone ate as ifthey were starving, with appreciative grunts and smackingnoises. Then, after a while, with either Matilda or Kizzy refillinghis glass with fresh buttermilk or putting more hot meat,vegetables, and com bread on his plate, they began plyingTorn with questions. "Po' thing, is dey feedin' you any goodover yonder? Who cook fo' you anyhow?" asked Matilda. Tornchewed his mouthful enough to reply, "Mr. Isaiah's wife. MissEmma." "What color she is, what she look like?" asked Kizzy."She black, sorta fat." "Dat ain't got nothin' to do widercookin'l" guffawed Chicken George. "She cook any good,boy?" "Pretty fair. Pappy, yassuh," Torn nodded affirmatively."Well, ain't like yo' own mammy's nohow!" snapped SisterSarah. Torn murmured agreeably, "No'm," thinking howindignant Miss Emma would have been to hear them, and howindignant they'd be to know that she was a better cook. "Heran' dat blacksmith man, is dey good Christian folks?" "Yes'm,dey is," he said. " " Specially Miss Emma, she read de Biblea whole lots. " Torn was just finishing his third plateful when hismammy and gran'mammy descended on him with still more,despite his vigorous head shaking He managed a muffledprotest: "Save sump'n for L'il George when he come!" "Plentylet for 'im an' you knows it!" said Matilda. "Have not her piece

dis fried rabbit.. .1'il mo' dese collard greens... an' dis stewedwinter squash. An' Malizy done sent down a great big sweet'later custard from de dinner she servin' in de big house. Y'allknows how good dat is"--Torn had started forking into thecustard when Uncle Pompey cleared his throat to speak, andeveryone hushed up to hear him. "Boy, is you shoein' mulesan' bosses yet?" "Dey lets me pull off de of' shoes, but I ain'tput none on yet," said Torn, thinking how only the previous dayit had been necessary to hobble a vicious mule before it couldbe shod. Loudly Chicken George hooted, " " Speck he ain'tgot 'enough good hard mule kicks yet to be broke in good!Mighty easy to mess up bosses' foots less'n somebody knowwhat he doin'! Heared 'bout one blacksmith nigger put deshoes on backwards, an' dat boss wouldn't do nothin' butback up! " When he quit laughing at his own joke, ChickenGeorge asked, "How much y'all git for shoein' bosses an'mules?" "Blieves de mens pays Massa Askew fo'teen cents ashoe," said Torn. "Sho' ain't no money in it like fightin'chickensi" Chicken George exclaimed. "Well, it's sho' plentymo' use o' blacksmithin' clan it is dem chickens!" snappedGran'mammy Kizzy, her tone so cutting that Torn wanted tojump up and hug her. Then she went on, her voice suddenlytender, "Son, what de man have you doin' in learnin' you howto blacksmith?" Torn was glad she asked, for he wanted toshare with his family some idea of what he was doing. "Well,Gran'- mammy, early every mornin' I has de forge fire going'good by time Mr. Isaiah gits dere. Den I lays out de tools Iknows he gwine need for de jobs he gwine be doin'. "Causewhen you shapin' red-hot iron, can't let it be coolin' down while

you hunts for de right hammers to hit it wid"--" Lawd, de chileblacksmithin' already! " exclaimed Sister Sarah. "No'm," saidTorn. "I he's what dey calls a 'striker." If Mr. Isaiah makin'sump'n heavy, like wagon axles or plowshares, den I hits widde sledge wherever he tap his hammer. An' sometime 1'ilsimple jobs hell let me finish while he start sump'n else. ""When he gwine let you start shoein de bosses?" askedChicken George, still pushing, seeming almost as if hewanted to embarrass his blacksmithing son, but Torn grinned."Dunno, Pappy, but I reckon soon's he feel like I kin do itwidout 'is he'p. Jes' like you said, I sho' has got kicked aplentytimes. Fact, some dem bad ones git to rarin' up, dey won'tonly kick, dey'U bite a plug out'n you if you ain't careful." "Dowhite folks come roun' dat blacksmith shop, son?" askedSister Sarah. "Yes, ma'am, whole lots of 'em. Ain't hardly noday don't see leas'-a dozen or mo' standin' roun' talkin' whiledey's waiting for Mr. Isaiah to finish whatever work dey donebrung." "Well, den what kind o' news is you done beared 'emtalkin' 'bout dat maybe we ain't, being' stuck off like we ishere?" Torn thought a moment, trying to remember what hadMr. Isaiah and Miss Emma felt were the most important thingsthey'd recently heard white people talking about. "Well, onething was sump'n dey calls 'telegraph." It was some MassaMorse in Washington, D. C. " dat talked to somebody clear inBaltimore. Dey say he say, "What have God wrought?" But Iain't never got de straight of what it s'posed to mean. " Everyhead around the dinner table tamed toward Matilda as theirBible expert, but she seemed perplexed. "I--well, I can't besho',"she said uncertainly, "but believe I ain't never read

nothin' 'bout dat in de Bible." "Somehow or not her Mammy,"said Torn, "seem like it weren't to do wid de Bible. Was jes'sump'n talked a long ways through de air." He asked then ifany of them were aware that a few months before. PresidentPolk had died of diarraea in Nashville, Tennessee, and hadbeen succeeded by President Zachary Taylor. "Everybodyknow dat!" exclaimed Chicken George. "Well, you know somuch, you ain't never told it in my hearin'," said Sister Sarahsharply.

Torn said,

"White folks, 'specially dey young'uns, is been comin' roun'singing songs s'posed to sound' like us, but dey was writ by aMassa Stephen Foster." Torn sang the little that he couldremember of "01' Black Joe," "My 01' Kentucky Home," and"Massa's in de Col', Col' Ground." "Sho' do sound' sump'n likeniggers!" Gran'mammy Kizzy exclaimed. "Mr. Isaiah say datMassa Poster growed up spendin' a lotta time lissenin' tonigger singin' in churches an' roun' de steamboats an'wharves," said Torn. "Dat 'splain it!" said Matilda. "But ain'tyou beared of no doin's by none o' us?" "Well, yas'm," saidTorn, and he said that free blacks who brought work to Mr.Isaiah had been talking a lot about famous northern blackswho were fighting against slavery, traveling around, lecturinglarge mixed audiences to tears and cheers by telling their lifestories as-daves before they had escaped to freedom. "Likeit's one name Frederick Douglass," Torn said. "Dey says hewas raised a slave boy in Maryland, an' he teached his self to

read an' write an' finally worked an' saved up enough to buyhis self free from his massa." Matilda cast a meaningfulglance at Chicken George as Torn went on. "Dey says peoplegathers by de hunnuds anywhere he speak, an' he done writ abook an' even started up a newspaper. "It's famous womens,too. Mammy." Torn looked at Matilda, Gran'mammy Kizzy, andSister Sarah, and he told them of a former slave namedSojoumer Truth, said to be over six feet tall, who also lecturedbefore huge crowds of white and black people, though shecould neither read nor write. Springing up from her seat,Gran'mammy Kizzy began wildly gesturing. "Sees right now Ineeds to git up Nawth an' do me some talkin'." She mimickedas if she were facing a big audience, "Y'all white folks listenhere to Kizzy! Ain't gwine have dis mess no mo'l Us niggerssick an' tired o' slavin'!" "Mammy, de boy say dat woman sixfeet! You aint tall enough! " Chicken George said, roaring withlaughter, as the others around the table glared at him in mockindignation. Chagrined, Gran'mammy Kizzy sat back down.Torn told them of another famous escaped slave woman "Shenamed Harriet Tubman. Ain't no tellin' how many times shecome back South an' led out different whole bunches o' folkslike us to freedom up Nawth on sump'n dey's callin' de"Unnergroun' Railroad." Fac', she done it so much dey claimsby now white folks got out forty thousand dollars' worth o'rewards fo' her, alive or dead. " "Lawd have mercy, wouldn't o'thought white folks pay dat much to catch no nigger in deworl'!" said Sister Sarah. He told them that in a far-distantstate called California, two white men were said to have beenbuilding a sawmill when they discovered an unbelievable

wealth of gold in the ground, and thousands of people weresaid to be rushing in wagons, on mules, even afoot to reachthe place where it was claimed that gold could be dug up bythe shovelful. He said finally that in the North great debates onthe subject of slavery were being held between two white mennamed Stephen Douglas and Abraham Lincoln. "Which one'em for de niggers?" asked Gran'mammy Kizzy. "Well, sound'like de Massa Lincoln, leas' ways debes I can tell," said Torn."Well, praise de Lawd an' give 'im stren'th!" said Kizzy.Sucking his teeth. Chicken George got up patting his amplebelly and turned to Torn. "Looka here, boy, why'n't you'n mestretch our legs, walk off some dat meal?" "Yassuh, Pappy,"Torn almost stammered, scarcely able to conceal hisamazement and trying to act casual. The women, who were noless startled, exchanged quizzical, significant glances whenChicken George and Torn set off together down the road.Sister Sarah exclaimed softly, "Lawd, y'all realize dat boydone growed nigh big as his daddy!" James and Lewisstared after their father and older brother nearly sick with envy,but they knew better than to invite themselves along. But thetwo younger girls, L'il Kizzy and Mary, couldn't resist leapingup and happily starting to hop-skip along eight or ten stepsbehind them. Without even looking back at them. ChickenGeorge or dered, "Git on back yonder an he'p y'all's mammywid dem dishes!" "Aw, Pappy!" they whined in unison. "Git,done tol' you!" Half turning around with his eyes loving his littlesisters, Torn chided them gently, "Ain't y'all hear Pappy? Wesee you later on." With the girls' complaining sounds behindthem, they walked on in silence for a little way and Chicken

George spoke almost gruffly. "Looka here, reckon you know Iain't meant no harm jes' teasin' you a 1'il at dinner." "Aw,nawsuh," Torn said, privately astounded at what amounted toan apology from his father. "I knowed you was jes' teasin'."

Grunting, Chicken George said,

"What say we head on down an' look in on dem chickens?See what keepin' dat no- count L'il George down dere solong. All I knows, he mighta cooked an' et up some demchickens fo' his Thanksgivin' by now." Torn laughed. "L'ilGeorge mean well. Pappy. He jes' a 1'il slow. He done tol' mehe jes' don' love dem birds like you does." Torn paused, thendecided to venture his accompanying thought. "I 'specknobody in de worl' loves dem birds like you does." ButChicken George agreed readily enough. "Nobody in disfamily, anyways. I done tried 'em all--'ceptin' you. Seem like allde res' my boys willin' to spend dey lives draggin' from oneend of a fiel' to de other, lookin' up a mule's butt!" Heconsidered for a moment. "Yo' black- smithin', wouldn't 'zacklycall dat no high livin' neither--nothin' like game cocking--butleas' ways it's a man's work." Torn wondered if his father everseriously respected anything excepting fighting chickens. Hefelt deeply grateful that somehow he had escaped into thesolid, stable trade of blacksmithing. But he expressed histhoughts in an oblique way. "Don't see nothin' wrong widfannin'. Pappy. If some folks wasn't farmin', 'speck nobodywouldn' be eatin'. I jes' took to blacksmithin' same as you widgame cocking 'cause I loves it, an' de Lawd gimme a knack

fo' it. Jes' ever' body don' love de same things. " "Well, leas'you an' me got sense to make money doin' what we likes,"said Chicken George. Torn replied, "You does, anyway. I won'tmake no money fo' couple mo' years, 'til I'se finished prenticing an' goes to work for massa--dat is, if he gimme somede money, like he do o' what you wins hack fighting "Sho' hewill!" said Chicken George. "Massa ain't bad as yo' mammyan' gran'mammy an' dem likes to claim. He got 'is orneryways, sho' is! You jes' have to learn how to git to massa'sgood side, like I does--keep 'im b'leevin' you considers 'imone dem high-class mass as what do good by dcy niggers."Chicken George paused. "Dat Massa Askew whose placeyou over dere workin' on--you got any idea what 'mount o'money he give dat Isaiah nigger fo' his blacksmithin'?" "Ibleeves dollar a week," said Torn. "I'se beared Mr. Isaiah'swife say dat's what he give her every week to save, an' shedo, every penny." "Less'n a minute win mon dat fightin'chickensi" Chicken George exclaimed, and then containedhimself. "Well, anyhow, you jes' leave de money part to mewhen you comes back here to blacksmith fo' massa. I talk to'im good 'bout how cheap dat Massa Askew is wid 'is nigger.""Yassuh." Chicken George was experiencing a peculiarfeeling that he really wished to insure having the alliance, eventhe approval of this particular one among his six sons--not thatanything was wrong with the other five, and despite the factthat this one was by far the least likely ever to sport anythinglike a green -scarf and black derby with a long feather in it; it -was just that very clearly this Torn possessed qualities ofresponsibleness not encountered every day, as well as an

unusual individual durability and strength. They had walked onin silence for a while when Chicken George said abruptly,"You ever think 'bout blacksmithin' fo' yo'self, boy?" "What youmean? How in de worl' I gwine do dat, Pappy?" "You everthink 'bout savin' de money you gwine be makin' an' buyin'yo'self free?" Seeing Torn too thunderstruck to reply. ChickenGeorge kept talking. "Few years back, roun' when L'il Kizzyborn, one night me an' yo' mammy set down an figgered 'bouthow much it cost to buy us whole family free, 'cordin to pricesfo' niggers dem days. Come to roun' sixty-eight hunnuddollars"--" Whew! " Torn was shaking his head. "Hear me out!"George said. "Sho' it's a lot! But ever since den, I been hackfighting my butt off, wid yo' mammy savin' my share o' dewinnins. Ain'twinned as much as I'd figured when I started out,but all de same don' nobody know but yo' mammy an' me--an'now you--she got mon a thou san dollars buried in jars roun'de backyard!" Chicken George looked at Torn. "Boy, I'se jes'thinking..." "Me, too. Pappy!" A gleam was in Tom's eyes."Lissen here, boy!" The urgency increased in ChickenGeorge's tone. "If'n I keeps winnin' 'bout de same as in depast few seasons, I oughta have three, fo' hunnud mo' stashedaway time you starts blacksmithin' fo' massa." Torn waseagerly nodding his head. "An', Pappy, wid bofe us makin'money, mammy could bury maybe five, six hunnud a year!" hesaid excitedly. "Yeah!" Chicken George exclaimed. "At datrate, less'n nigger prices is riz a lot higher, we ought to have'enough to buy us whole fam'ly free inside o'--lemme seenow..." They both figured, using their fingers. After a while,Torn exclaimed, '"Bout fifteen years!" "Where you learn to

count sofas What you think 'bout my idea, boy?" "Pappy,gwine blacksmith my head off! I }es' wish you'd o' saidsomething' 'fo' now." "Wid two us, I knows we can do it!" saidGeorge, beaming. "Make dis family 'mount to sump'n! Us allgit up Nawth, raisin' chilhms an' gran'chilluns free, like folkswas meant to! What you say, boy?" Both deeply moved, Tornand Chicken George had impulsively grasped each otherabout the shoulders when just then they turned to see thestout, pudgy figure of L'il George approaching at a lumberingtrot, shouting "Torn! Torn! " and wearing a grin seeming almostas wide as himself. Reaching them breathless, his chestheaving, he grabbed and pumped Tom's hands, clapped himon the back, and stood there alternately wheezing andgrinning, with sweat making his plump cheeks shine. "Glad...to... see... you... TornI" he gasped finally. "Take it easy dere,boy!" said Chicken George. "You won't have strength to gittoyo dinner. " "Never... too... tired. fo'... dat... Pappy! " " Why'n'tyou git on up dere an' eat, den," said Torn, " an we jine you byand by. Pappy and me got things to talk bout. " "Awright... I...see... y'all... later," said L'il George, needing no furtherencouragement as he turned to head for slave row. "Betterhurry!" Chicken George shouted after him. "Don' know howlong yo' mammy can hoi' off yo' brothers from eatin' up what'slet!" Watching L'il George break into a waddling run, Torn andhis father stood holding their sides from laughter until hedisappeared around the bend, still gaining momentum. "Webetter figger sixteen years 'fo' we gits free," Chicken Georgegasped. "How come?" asked Torn, quickly concerned. "Waydat boy eat, gwine cost a year's pay jes' keepin' im fed 'til

den!"

CHAPTER 103

In the memory of Chicken George, nothing had evergenerated such excitement among North Carolina gamecockers as the news that spread swiftly during late Novemberof 1855 that the wealthy Massa Jewett was entertaining as hishouse guest a titled, equally rich game cocker from Englandwho had brought with him across the ocean thirty of hispurebred "Old English Game" birds, said to be the finestbreed of fighting cocks in existence. According to the news,the Englishman, Sir C. Eric Russell, had accepted MassaJewett's written invitation to pit his birds against some of thebest in the United States. Since as longtime friends theypreferred not to fight their gamecocks against one another,each of them would supply twenty birds to fight any fortychallenger birds whose collective owners would be expectedto ante up their half of a $30,000 main pot, and $250 sidebets would be the minimum permitted on each cockfight.Another wealthy local game cocker volunteered to organizethe forty competitors--accepting only five birds apiece fromseven other owners besides himself. It had not been reallynecessary for Massa Lea to tell his veteran trainer that he wasgoing after a share of such a huge pot. "Well," he said uponreturn to the plantation after posting his $1,875 bond, "we'vegot six weeks to train five birds." "Yassuh, ought to be able todo dat, I reckon," Chicken George replied, trying as hard--andas unsuccessfully--not to seem excited. Apart from his own

deep thrill just to think of such a contest. Chicken Georgeexulted to the assembled slave-row family that it seemed tohim that sheer excitement had rolled twenty-five years offMassa Lea. "Dey's sho' pricin' out any hack fighters heexclaimed. " Massa say it's sho' de bigges' money fight heever got any- wheres near to--fac', de sec on bigges' he evereven beared of! " "Phew! What bigger fight was dat?"exclaimed Uncle Pompey.

Chicken George said,

"Reckon maybe twenty years back dis double-rich MassaNicholas Amngton what live near Nashville, Tennessee, took'leben covered wagons, twenty- two mens, and three hunnudbirds clear crost no tellin' how many states, through bandits anIndians an' everythin', tildey got to Mexico. Dey fought 'againstnot her three hunnud birds belongin' to de Pres'dent o'Mexico, a Gen'l Santa Ana, what had so much money hecouldn even count it, an' swo' he raised de world's greatestgamecocks. Well, Massa say de fightin' jes' dem two men'sbirds went on a solid week! De stake was so big dey mainpurse was a chest apiece full o' money! Massa say even deyside bets could o' broke mos' rich mens. In de end, disTennessee Massa Amngton won roun' halfa million dollars!His birds he called "Cripple Tonys' after his crippled niggertrainer named Tony. An' dat Mexican Geni Santa Ana wantedone dem "Cripple Tonys' so bad fo' a breedin' cock he paid itsweight in gol'!" "I see right now I better git in de chickenbusiness," said Uncle Pompey. For most of the next six

weeks, Chicken George and Massa Lea were seldom seenby anyone else on the plantation. "It's a good thing massakeepin' off down dere wid dem chickens, mad as of' missisis!" Miss Malizy told the others on slave row at the end of thethird week. "I heard her jes' screechin' at him 'bout takin' fivethou san dollars out'n de bank. Heared her say it near 'bouthalf what dey got saved up from all dey lives, an' she jes'hollered an' carried on 'bout 'im tryin' to keep up wid dem realrich mass as what got a thou san times mo' money clan he is." After shouting at the missis to shut up and mind her owndamn business, the massa had stalked out of the house, saidMiss Malizy. Listening grimly, but saying nothing, were Matildaand twenty-two-year-old Torn, who four years before hadreturned to the plantation and built a blacksmith shop behindthe barn, where by now he was serving a thriving trade ofcustomers for Massa Lea. Fit to burst with anger, Matilda hadconfided to her son how Chicken George had furiouslydemanded and gotten their own two-thousand-dollar cache ofsavings, which he was going to turn over to the massa to bebet on the Lea birds. Matilda, too, had screeched and wept indesperate effort to reason with Chicken George, "but he actlike he gone crazy!" she had told Torn. "Hollered at me,"Woman, I knows every bird we got from when dey Was eggs.Three or fo' ain't nothin' wid wings can beat! Ain't Trout to passup dis chance to zackly double what we got saved noquicker'n it take one our chickens to kill anothern! Twominutes can save us eight, nine mo' years o' scrapin' an'savin' to buy us free! " "Mammy, I know you tol' Pappy desavin' have to start over ag'in if de chicken lose!" Torn had

exclaimed. "Ain't only tol' im dat! Tried my bes' to press on 'imhe ain't got no right to gamble wid our freedom! But he gotreal mad, hollerin', " Ain't no way we kin lose! You gimme mymoney, woman! " " And Matilda had done so, she had toldTorn, her face stricken. In the game fowl area, ChickenGeorge and Massa Lea finished culling seventeen of the bestrange walk birds down to ten of the finest gamecocks either ofthem had ever seen. Then they began air-training those tenbirds, tossing them higher and higher, until finally eight of themflew as much as a dozen yards before their feet touched theground. "I 'dare look like we's trainin' wil' turkeys, Massa! "chortled Chicken George. "They're going to need to be hawksup against Jewett's and that Englishman's birds," said themassa. When the great cockfight was but a week away, themassa rode off, and late the following day he returned with sixpairs of the finest obtainable Swedish steel gaffs, their lengthsas sharp as razors tapering to needle points. After a finalcritical appraisal two days before the fight, each of the eightbirds seemed so perfect that there was simply no way to saywhich five were best. So the massa decided to take all eightand choose among them at the last minute. He told ChickenGeorge that they would leave the following midnight in order toarrive early enough for both the gamecocks and themselves torest from the long ride and be fresh for the big fights. ChickenGeorge knew that the massa was itching as bad as he wasjust to get there. The long ride through the darkness wasuneventful. As he drove, his gaze idly upon the lantern glowingand bobbing at the end of the wagon's tongue between thetwo mules. Chicken George thought with mingled feelings of

his and Matilda's recent emotional altercation about themoney. He told himself resentfully that he knew better than shedid how many years of patient saving it represented; after all,hadn't it been his own perennial scores upon scores of hackfights that had earned it? He'd never felt for a moment thatMatilda wasn't as good as wives came, so he regretted he'dhad to shout her down, upsetting her so badly, as apparentlythe massa had also been forced to do within the big house,but on the other hand there were those times when the head ofa family simply had to make the important, hard decisions. Heagain heard Matilda's tearful cry, "George, you ain't got noright to gamble wid all our freedom!" How quickly she'dforgotten that it had been he in the first place who hadintroduced the idea of accumulating enough to buy theirfreedom. And after all those slow years of saving, it was nownothing but a godsend that the massa had confided that heneeded more cash for side betting during the forthcomingfights, not only to make a good showing before those snobby,rich mass as but to win their money as well. Chicken Georgegrinned to himself, remembering with relish Massa Lea'sutterly astounded expression at hearing him say, "I got 'bouttwo thousand dollars saved dat you can use to bet wid,Massa." Upon recovering from his shock, Massa Lea hadactually grabbed and shook his trainer's hand, pledging hisword that Chicken George would receive every cent that waswon in bets using his money, declaring, You ought to double it,anyhow! " The massa hesitated. "Boy, what you gonna do withfour thousand dollars?" In that instant Chicken George haddecided to take an even bigger gamble--to reveal why he had

been saving so long and so hard, "Massa, don't mistake menone, ain't got nothin' but debes kin' o' feelin's 'bout you,Massa. But me an' Tilda jes' got to talkin', an' Massa, we jes''cided we gwine try see couldn' us buy us an' our chilluns fromyou, an' spen' out de res' our days free!" Seeing Massa Leaclearly taken aback. Chicken George again implored, "PleaseLawd don't take us wrong, Massa"--But then in one of ChickenGeorge's most richly warning life experiences, Massa Leahad said, "Boy, I'm gonna tell you what's been on my mindabout this chicken fight we're going into. I'm figuring for it td bemy last big one. Don't think you even realize, I'm seventy-eightyears old. I've been over fifty years of dragging back and forthevery season worrying with raising and fighting thesechickens. I'm sick of it. You hear me! I tell you what, boy! Withmy cut of that main pot and side bets, I'm figgerin' to winenough to build me and my wife another house--not no greatbig mansion like I wanted one time, but just five, six rooms,new, that's all we need. And I hadn't thought about it until youjust brought it up, but then won't be no more point in owning awhole passel of y'all niggers to have to fend for. Just Sarahand Malizy could cook and keep a good garden we can liveoff, and have enough money in the bank not to never have tobeg nobody for nothin'"--Chicken George was barelybreathing as Massa Lea went on. "So I'm gonna tell you what,boy! Y'all have served me well an' ain't never give me no realtrouble. We win this chicken fight big, at least double both ourmoney, yeah, you just give me what you'll have, four thousanddollars, and we'll call it square! And you know good as I do ally'all niggers are worth twice that! Fact, I never told you, but

once that rich Jewett offered me four thousand just for you, an'I turned him down! Yeah, an' y'all can go on free if that's whatyou want! " Suddenly in tears. Chicken George had lunged toembrace Massa Lea, who quickly moved aside inembarrassment. "Oh Lawdy, Massa, you don't know whatyou's say- in'! Us wants to be free so bad!" Massa Lea's replywas strangely hoarse. "Well, I don't know what y'all niggers'Udo, free, without somebody lookin' out for you. An' I know mywife's going to raise all manners of hell about me just thesame as giving y'all away. Hell, that blacksmith boy Torn aloneis worth a good twenty-five hundred plus he's making megood money to boot!" Roughly the massa had shovedChicken George. "Git, nigger, before I change my mind! Hell! Imust be crazy! But I hope your woman an' mammy and therest y'all niggers find out I ain't bad as I know they alwaysmake me out to be!" "Aw nawsuh, nawsuh, Massa, thank you,Massa!" Chicken George went scrambling backward, asMassa Lea hastily departed up the road toward the big house.Chicken George wished now more than ever that the bitterencounter with Matilda had never occurred. Now he decided itbest to keep his triumphant secret, to let Matilda, his mammyKizzy, and the whole family learn of their freedom as anabsolutely total surprise. Still, fit to burst with such a secret,several times he nearly told Torn, but then always at the lastmoment he didn't, for even as solid a man as Torn was, hewas so close with both his mammy and gran'mammy that hemight swear them to secrecy, which would ruin it. Also thatwould activate among them the very sticky issue thataccording to what the massa had said, Sister Sarah, Miss

Malizy, and Uncle Pompey were going to have to be leftbehind, though they were as much family as anybody else. Soacross the interim weeks, Chicken George, pent up with hissecret, had submerged himself body and soul into honing intoabsolute perfection the final eight gamecocks that now wereriding quietly in their coops behind him and Massa Lea in thebig custom-built wagon rolling along the lonely road throughthe dark. At intervals Chicken George wondered what theuncommonly silent Massa Lea was thinking. It was in the earlydaylight when they caught sight of the vast and motley throngthat even this early had not only overrun the cock fighting areabut had also spilled into an adjoining pasture that was quicklyfilling with other wagons, carriages, buggies, carts, andsnorting mules and horses. "Tawm Leal" A group of poorcrackers cried out upon seeing the massa climb down fromhis huge wagon. "Go git 'em, Tawm!" As he adjusted his blackderby. Chicken George saw the massa nodding at them in afriendly manner, but he kept on walking. He knew that themassa wavered between pride and embarrassment at hisnotoriety among the crackers. After halfa century as a gamecocker in fact, Massa Lea was a legend wherever chickenswere fought locally, since even at his age of seventy-eight, hisability to handle birds in a cockpit seemed undiminished.Chicken George had never heard such a din of crowinggamecocks as he began unpacking things for action. Apassing slave trainer stopped and told him that among thecrowd were many who had traveled for days from other states,even as distant as Florida. Glancing about as they talked.Chicken George saw that the usual spectator area was more

than doubled, but already was crawling with men guaranteeingthemselves a seat. Among those moving steadily past thewagon, he saw as many strange faces both white and blackas he did familiar ones, and he felt pride when numerousamong both races obviously recognized him, usually nudgingtheir companions and whispering. The sprawling crowd'sbuzzing excitement rose to a yet higher pitch when threejudges came to the cockpit and began measuring andmarking the starting lines. Another buzz arose whensomeone's gamecock fluttered loose and went furiouslyattacking men in its path, even sending a dog yelping, until thebird was cornered and caught. And the crowd's noisesswelled with each arrival and identification of any of the area'swell-known game cockers-especially the rest of the eight whowould be competing against the sponsoring Massas Jewettand Russell. "I ain't never seed no Englishman, is you?"Chicken George overheard one poor white man ask another,who said he hadn't either. He also heard talk about the titledEnglishman's wealth, that he had not only a huge Englishestate, but also rich holdings in places called Scotland, Areland, and Jamaica. And he heard that Massa Jewett hadproudly boasted among friends of how his guest was knownfor fighting his birds anytime, anywhere, against anycompetition, for any amount. Chicken George was chopping afew apples into small bits to feed the birds when suddenly thecrowd noise rose to a roar--and standing up quickly in thewagon he recognized the approaching canopied surrey drivenby Massa Jewett's always poker-faced black coachman. Inthe back were the two rich mass as smiling and waving down

at the crowd, surging so thickly around them that thecarriage's finely matched horses had a hard time progressing.And not far behind came six wagons, each filled with tall cockcoops, the lead wagon driven by Massa Jewett's white trainer,alongside of whom sat a thin and keen-nosed white manwhom Chicken George overheard someone nearby exclaimthat the titled, wealthy Englishman had brought clear acrossthe ocean just to care for his birds. But the oddly dressed,short, stockily built, and ruddy- complexioned Englishnobleman himself was the milling crowd's major focus ofattention as he rode alongside Massa Jewett in the surrey,both of them looking every inch the important, even lordly menthey were, the Englishman seeming to display just an extratouch of disdain and hauteur toward the jostling throng on theground. Chicken George had attended so many cockfightsthat he turned to his work of massaging the legs and wings ofhis birds, knowing out of experience that different sounds ofthe crowd would tell him whatever was going on, without hiseven looking. Soon a referee shouted for a quieting of thehoots, catcalls, and rebel yells that said that many in the crowdhad already been hard at their bottles. Then he heard the firstannouncement: "Mr. Fred Rudolph of Williamstown is pittinghis red bird against Sir C. Eric Russell of England with hisspeckled gray." Then: "Bill your cocks!" And then: "Pit!" Andthe crowd's shouting, followed by a sudden awed hush, toldhim as clearly as if he had been watching that the fight hadquickly been won by the Englishman's bird. As each of theeight challengers in turn fought their string of five birdsalternately against one belonging either to Massa Jewett or

the Englishman, Chicken George had never heard such a roarof side betting in his life, and the battles within the pit wereoften matched by the verbal contests between the crowd andthe referees shouting for quiet. Now and then the crowdnoises would tell the busy Chicken George that both birds hadbeen hurt badly enough for the referees to stop the fight to letthe owners doctor them up before the fight continued. Georgecould tell from a special roaring of the crowd each time one ofthe wealthy men's birds was beaten, which wasn't often, andhe wondered nervously how soon Massa Lea's turn was goingto come. George guessed that the judges must be picking theorder of challengers by plucking their names on slips from ahat. He would have loved to see at least some of the actualfighting, but so much was at stake: He was not going tointerrupt his massaging, not even for one moment. He thoughtfleetingly about what a fortune of money, some of it his ownyears of savings, (he massa was only waiting to bet on thevery birds whose muscles he was gently kneading under hisfingers. Although only some chosen five among them wouldfight, there was no way to guess which five, so every one ofthe eight had to be in the very ultimate of physical readinessand condition. Chicken George had not often prayed in hislife, but now he did so. He tried to picture what Matilda's facewas going to look like, first when he returned and dropped intoher apron their money at least doubled, and next when hewould ask her to assemble the whole family, when he wouldannounce they were FREE. Then he heard the shout of thereferee: "The next five challenging birds are owned and will behandled by Mr. Torn Lea of Caswell Countyl" George's heart

leaped up into his throat! Clapping his derby tighter on hishead, he sprang down from the wagon, knowing the massawould be coming now to select his first bird. "Taaaaawm Leal"Above the crowd noise he heard the name being squalled outby the poor crackers. Then came advancing raucous rebelyells as a group of men surged out of the crowd, surroundingthe massa. Reaching the wagon amid them, he cupped hishand over his mouth and over the din shouted in George's ear,"These fellas will help us take 'em all over by the cockpit.""Yassuh, Massa." George went leaping back onto the wagon,handing down the eight cock coops to the massa's poor-whitecompanions, his thoughts flashing that in his thirty-seven yearsof game- cocking he never had ceased to marvel at MassaLea's appearance of a totally detached calm in such tensetimes as now. Then they were all trooping back toward thecockpit through the crowd, Massa Lea carrying the splendiddark buff bird he had chosen to fight first, and ChickenGeorge bringing up the rear carrying his woven basket ofemergency injury medications, rabbit underbelly fur, someleaves of fresh ivy, glycerin, a ball of spider's web, andturpentine. It was a worsening push-and-shove progress thecloser they got toward the cockpit, with the alcoholic cries of"Tawm Lea!" ringing in their ears, as well as sometimes"That's his Chicken George nigger!" and George could feelthe eyes on him as if they were fingers, and it felt good, butkept both moving and looking straight ahead, trying to appearas cool as the massa. And then Chicken George saw theshort, squat, titled Englishman standing casually near thecockpit, holding a magnificent bird within the crook of his left

arm, as his eyes watchfully appraised the little procession ofthem arriving with the challenger birds. After exchanging curtnods with Massa Lea, Russell set his bird on the scales andthe referee sang out, "Five pounds and fifteen ounces!" Thebeautiful bird's silvery blue plumage reflected brilliantly in thesunlight. Then the massa stepped up with his dark buff bird,which was one of Chicken George's particular favorites. It waspowerful, savage, its neck jerking about like a rattlesnake,murder in its eyes, and it was seething to be released. Whenthe referee shouted "Six pounds even!"the hard-drinking poor-white fans started yelling as if the extra ounce meant the fightwas won already. "Taaaaawm Lea! Go git that Britisher,Tawm! Act like he mighty stuck up! Take 'im down a peg!" Itwas plain that Massa Lea's special fans were really wellliquored, and Chicken George saw the darkening flush ofembarrassment on both the massa's and the English- man'sfaces as, pretending not to hear, they kneeled to tie on theirbirds' steel gaffs. But the cries grew more loud and rude:"Them chickens or ducks he fightin'?"... "Naw, it's swimmin'chickens!". "Yeah! He feed 'em fishes!" The Englishman'sface was angry. The referee had begun dashing back andforth, furiously waving his arms, shouting, "Gentlemen!Please!" But the derisive laughter only spread and thewisecracks became more cutting: "Where's his red coat at?"."Do he fight foxes, too?". "Naw, too slow, waddle like apossum!". "More like a bullfrog!" "He look to me like abloodhound!" Massa Jewett strode out, angrily confronting thereferee, his hands hacking the air, but with his words drownedout by the chanting chorus, "Tawmmm Leal". "Tawmmmmm

LEAt" Now even the judges joined the referee, dashing thisway and that, flailing their arms, brandishing their fists andbarking repeatedly, "The cockfight will stop unless there'squiet!"... "Y'all want that, keep it up!" Slowly, the drunken criesand laughter began subsiding. Chicken George saw MassaLea's face sick with his embarrassment, and that both theEnglishman and Massa Jewett were absolutely livid. "Mr.Leaf" When the Englishman loudly and abruptly snapped outthe words, almost instantly the crowd fell silent. "Mr. Lea, weboth have such superb birds here, I wonder if you'd care tojoin me in a special personal side bet?" Chicken Georgeknew that every man among the hundreds present sensed justas he did the Englishman's tone of vengefulness andcondescension behind his manner of civility. The back of themassa's neck, he saw, had suddenly become flushed with hisanger. A few seconds brought Massa Lea's stiff reply: "Thatwill suit me, sir. What is your proposition?" The Englishmanpaused. He appeared to be pondering the matter before hespoke. "Would ten thousand dollars be sufficient?" He let thewave of gasps sweep the crowd, and then, "That is, unlessyou haven't that much faith in your bird's chances, Mr. Lea." Hestood looking at the massa, his thin smile clearlycontemptuous. The crowd's brief exclamatory rumbling quicklyfaded into a deathly stillness; those who had been seatedwere standing up now. Chicken George's heart seemed tohave stopped beating. Like a distant echo be heard MissMaUzy's report of Missis Lea's fury that the five thousanddollars the massa had withdrawn from the bank was "near'bout half dey life savin's. " So Chicken George knew Massa

Lea couldn't dare to call that bet. But what possible responsecould he make not to be utterly humiliated before this throngincluding practically everyone he knew? Sharing his massa'sagony. Chicken George couldn't even bring himself to look athim. An eternity seemed to pass, then George doubted hisears. Massa Lea's voice was strained. "Sir, would you care todouble that? Twenty thousand! " The whole crowd ventedexclamations of incredulity amid rustling, agitated movements.In sheer horror Chicken George realized that sum representedMassa Lea's total assets in the world, his home, his land, hisslaves, plus Chicken George's savings. He saw theEnglishman's expression of utter astonishment, before quicklyhe collected himself, his face now set and grim. "A truesportsman!" he exclaimed, extending his hand to Massa Lea."A bet, sir! Let us heel up our birds!" Suddenly then ChickenGeorge understood: Massa Lea knew that his magnificentdark buff bird would win. Not only would the massa becomeinstantly rich, but this one crucial victory would make himforever a heroic legend for all poor crackers, a symbol thateven the snobbish, rich blue blood mass as could bechallenged and beaten! None of them could ever again lookdown their' noses at Torn Lea! Massa Lea and theEnglishman now bent down on their opposite sides of thecockpit, and in that instant it seemed to Chicken George thatthe entire life of the massa's bird flashed through his mind.Even as a cockerel, its unbelievably quick reflexes at first hadcaught his attention; then as a stag its amazing viciousnesssaw it constantly trying to attack others through the cracks intheir fence- row pen; and when recently retrieved from the

range walk within seconds it had nearly killed the old catchcock before it could be stopped. The massa had picked thatbird knowing how smart, aggressive, and deep game it was.For just a split second Chicken George seemed again to hearan outraged Matilda. "You's crazier even clan massal Wars'can happen to 'im is endin' up jes' a po' cracker again, butyou's gamblin' yo' whole famly's freedom on some chickeni"Then the three judges stepped out, positioning themselvesevenly around the cockpit. The referee poised as if he stoodon eggs. An atmosphere seemed to be hovering thateveryone there knew they were about to witness something totalk about for the rest of their days. Chicken George saw hismassa and the Englishman holding down their straining birds,both of their faces raised to watch the referee's lips. "Pit]" Thesilvery blue and dark buff birds blurred toward each other,crashing violently and bouncing backward. Landing on theirfeet, both were instantly again in the air, tearing to reach eachother's vitals. Beaks snapping, spurs flashing were moving ata blinding speed, attacking with ferocity that Chicken Georgehad seldom seen equaled by any two birds in a cockpit.Suddenly the Englishman's silvery blue was hit, the massa'sbird had sunk a spur deeply into one of its wing bones; theyfell off balance, both struggling to loosen the stuck spur whilepecking viciously at each other's heads. "Handle! Thirtyseconds!" The referee's shout was barely uttered before boththe Englishman and Massa Lea sprang in; the spur freed,both men licked their birds' disarrayed head feathers tosmoothness again, then set them back down on their startinglines, this time holding them by the tails. "Get ready.... Pit!"

Again the cocks met evenly high in midair, both sets of spursseeking a lethal strike, but failing to do so before theydropped back to the ground. The massa's bird dashed, tryingto knock its enemy off balance, but the English bird feintedbrilliantly sidewise, drawing the crowd's gasps as the massa'sbird lunged harmlessly past at full force. Before he whirledabout, the English bird was upon him; they rolled furiously onthe ground, then regained their feet, battling furiously beak tobeak, parting, beating at each other with powerful wing blowsabove a flurry of slashing legs. Again they took to the air,dropping back again, ground-fighting with new fury. A cry rose!The English bird had drawn blood. A spreading darkeningarea showed on the breast of the massa's bird. But heviolently buffeted his enemy with wing blows until it stumbledand he sprang above it for a kill. But again the English birdbrilliantly crouched, dodged, escaped. Chicken George hadnever witnessed such incredibly swift reflexes. But themassa's bird now whirled forcefully enough to knock theEnglish bird onto its back. He hit it twice in the chest, drawingblood, but the English bird managed to flap into the air, andcame down, striking the massa's bird in the neck. ChickenGeorge had quit breathing as the bleeding birds sparred,circling, heads low, each seeking an opening. In a sudden bunding flurry, the English bird was overpowering the massa'sbird, battering with its wings, its striking spurs drawing moreblood, then incredibly the massa's bird burst into the air andas it came down sinking a spur into the English bird's heart; itcollapsed in a feathery heap, its beak gushing blood. It cameso swiftly that a second or so seemed to pass before the huge

din rose. Screaming, red-faced men were springing up anddown. "Tawml Tawm! He done iti" Chicken George, beyondhappiness, saw them mobbing the massa, pounding his back,pumping his hand. "Tawm "Leal Tawm Leal Torn LEA!" We'sgwine be free. Chicken George kept thinking. The actuality ofsoon telling his family seemed unbelievable, inconceivable.He glimpsed the Englishman with his jaw set in a way thatmade one think of a bulldog. "Mr. LEA!" Probably nothing elsecould have so quickly quieted the crowd. The Englishman waswalking, he stopped about three yards distant from themassa. He said, "Your bird fought brilliantly. Either one couldhave won it. They were the most perfectly matched pair I'veever seen. I'm told you're a kind of sportsman who might careto let your winnings ride on another contest between birds ofours." Massa Lea stood there, his face blanched. Forseconds cooped gamecocks cluckings and crowings werethe only sounds heard as thronged men tried to comprehendthe potential of two gamecocks battling with eighty thousanddollars at stake, winner take all.. Heads had swiveled towardMassa Lea. He seemed bewildered, uncertain. For one splitsecond his glance brushed Chicken George, workingfeverishly on the injured bird. Chicken George was as startledas others to hear his own voice. "Yo" birds whup anything widfeathers, Massal" The sea of white faces swiveled towardhim. "I've heard that your faithful darky is among the besttrainers, but I wouldn't rely too much on his advice. I also haveother very good birds." The words had come as if the richEnglishman regarded his previous loss about as he mighthave a game of marbles, as if he were taunting Massa Lea.

Then Massa Lea sounded elaborately formal: "Yes, sir. As youpropose. I'l take pleasure in letting the sum ride on anotherfight. " The next several minutes of preparatory activitiespassed almost as a blur for Chicken George. Not a soundcame from the surrounding crowd. There had never beenanything like this. All of Chicken George's instincts approvedwhen Massa Lea indicated with a forefinger the coopcontaining the bird that Chicken George had previously givena nickname. "De Hawk, yassuh," he breathed, knowingprecisely that bird's tendency for seizing and holding anenemy with its beak while slashing with its spurs. It would bethe countermeasure for birds trained to feint expertly, as theprevious contest had suggested was characteristic within theEnglishman's flock. Cradling "De Hawk" in his arm, MassaLea went out to where the Englishman held a solid dark graybird. The birds weighed in at six pounds even. When "Pit!"came, bringing the anticipated rushing impact, somehowinstead of either bird taking to the air, they exchanged furiouswing blows and Chicken George could hear "De Hawk's"beak snapping after a proper hold... when somehow amidmutual buffeting an English spur struck in savagely. Themassa's bird stumbled and its head dropped limply for aninstant before it collapsed, its opened mouth streaming blood."0 Lawd! 0 Lawd! 0 Lawd!" Chicken George went bolting,knocking aside men in his lunge into the circular cockpit.Bellowing like a baby, scooping up the obviously mortallywounded "Hawk," he sucked clotting blood from its beak as itweakly fluttered, dying in his hands. He struggled to his feetwith the nearest men drawing back from his bawling anguish

as he stumbled back through the crowd and toward the wagoncradling the dead bird. Back about the pit a gathering ofplanters were wildly back-slapping and congratulating theEnglishman and Massa Jewett. All of their backs were turnedto the strick en, solitary figure of Massa Lea, who stoodrooted, staring down with a glazed look at the bloodstains inthe cockpit. Turning finally. Sir C. Eric Russell walked over towhere Massa Lea was, and Massa Lea slowly raised hiseyes. "What'd you say?" he mumbled. "I said, sir, it just wasn'tyour lucky day." Massa Lea managed a trace of a smile.

Sir C. Eric Russell said,

"Concerning the wager. Of course, no one carries about suchsums in his pocket. Why don't we settle up tomorrow? Say,sometime in the afternoon"--He paused. "After the tea hour, atMr. Jewett's home." Numbly, Massa Lea nodded. "Yes, sir."The trip home took two hours. Neither the massa nor ChickenGeorge spoke a word. It was the longest ride Chicken Georgehad ever taken. But it had not been long enough, as thewagon pulled into the driveway. When Massa Lea returnedfrom Massa Jewett's during the next day's dusk, he foundChicken George mixing meal for the cockerels in the supplyhut, where he had spent most of the hours since Matilda'sscreams, wails, and shouting during the previous night hadfinally driven him from their cabin; "George," the massa said,"I got something' hard to tell you." He paused, groping forwords. "Don't know how to say it hardly. But you already know Iain't had nowhere near the money folks thinks I did. Pact is,

'cept for a few thousand, 'bout all I own is the house, this land,and you few niggers. " He's going to sell us, George sensed."Trouble is," the massa went on, "even all that ain't but roun'half what I owe that god damned sonofabitch. But he's offeredme a break" The massa hesitated again. "You heard him saywhat he'd heard about you. And he said today he could seehow good you train in both the birds fought"--The massa tooka deep breath. George held his. "Well, seems like he needsto replace a trainer he lost over in England awhile back, andhe thinks bringing back a nigger trainer would be fun." Themassa couldn't look into George's disbelieving eyes andbecame more abrupt. "Not to drag out this mess, he'll call ussquare for all I've got in cash, a first and second mortgage onthe house, and using you over in England long enough to trainsomebody else. He says no more'n a couple of years. " Themassa forced himself to look Chicken George in the face."Can't tell you how bad I feel about this, George.... I ain't got nochoice. He's lettin' me off light. If I don't do it, I'm mint,everything I ever worked for." George couldn't find words.What could he say? After all, he was the massa's slave. "Now,I know you're wiped out, too, and I mean to make it up to you.So I pledge you my word right here and now while you're goneI'll take care of your woman and young'uns. And the day youget home"--Massa Lea paused, sliding a hand into hispocket, withdrawing it, and holding a folded paper that heunfolded and thrust before Chicken George. "Know what thatis? Sat down an' wrote it out last night You're looking right atyour legal freedom paper, boy! I'm gonna keep it in mystrongbox to hand you the day you come back!" But after

momentarily staring at the mysterious writing that coveredmost of the square, white sheet of paper, Chicken Georgecontinued struggling to control his fury. "Massa," he saidquietly, "I was gwine buy us all free! Now all I had gone, an' yousendin' me off crost de water somewheres 'way from my wifean' chilluns besides. How come you can't leas' free dem now,den me when I gits back?" Massa Lea's eyes narrowed. "Idon't need you tellin' me what to do, boy! Ain't my fault you lostthat money! I'm offerin' to do too much for you anyhow, that'sthe trouble with niggers! You better be careful of your mouth!"The massa's face was reddening. "If it wasn't for you being' allyour life here, I'd just go ahead an' sell your ass!" Georgelooked at him, then shook his head. "If all my life mean anythin'to you, Massa, how come you's jes' messin' it up mo'?" Themassa's face set into hardness. "Pack whatever you intend totake with you! You leave for England Saturday."

CHAPTER 104

With Chicken George gone, his luck gone, and perhaps hisnerve gone as well, the fortunes of Massa Lea continued todecline. At first, he ordered L'il George into full-time daily careof the chickens, but toward the end of only a third day, themassa found some of the cockerel pens' water pans emptyand the chubby, slow L'il George was sent fleeing with direthreats. The youngest boy, Lewis, nineteen, was nexttransferred from field work to take on the job. In preparationfor the season's several remaining game cocking matches,Massa Lea now was forced to take over most of the prefight

training and conditioning chores himself, since Lewis as yetsimply did not know how. He accompanied the massa to thevarious local contests, and each of those days, the rest of thefamily gathering in the evenings awaited the return of Lewis totell them whatever bad happened. The massa's birds had lostmore fights than they won, Lewis always said, and after awhile that he had overheard men openly talking that Torn Leawas trying to borrow money to make bets. "Ain't many seemlike dey wants to talk wid massa. Dey jes' speaks or wavesquick an' keeps going' like he got de plague." "Yeah, deplague o' dem knowin' now he po'," said Matilda. "Po'cracker's all he ever beeni" Sister Sarah snapped. It becameslave row's common knowledge that Massa Lea had taken todrinking heavily, almost every day, between his shoutingmatches with Missis Lea. "Dat of' man ain't never been disevil!" Miss Malizy told her grimly listening audience one night."He hit de house actin' jes' like a snake hollerin' an' cussin' ifnmissy even look at 'im. An' all day long when he gone, she indere cryin' she don't even never want to hear no more "bout nochickens!" Matilda listened, emotionally drained from her own'weeping and praying since her Chicken George had beengone. Briefly her glances reviewed their teen-aged daughtersand six strong grown sons, three of them now with mates andchildren. Then her eyes came back to rest upon herblacksmith son, Torn, as if she wished he would saysomething. But who spoke instead was Lilly Sue, Virgil'spregnant mate, who was briefly visiting from the nearby Curryplantation where she lived, and fear was thick in her tone. "Idon' know y'all's massa good as you do, but I jes" feels he

gwine do something terrible, sbo's we born. " A silence fellamong them, no one being willing to express their own guess,at least not aloud. After the next morning's breakfast. MissMalizy waddled hurriedly from the kitchen down to theblacksmith shop. "Massa say tell you saddle his boss and gitit roun' to de front porch, Torn," she urged, her large eyesvisibly moist. "Lawd, please hurry up, 'cause de things hebeen sayin' to poof' missis jes' ain't hardly fittin'." Without aword Torn soon tied the saddled horse to a gate post, and hehad just started back around the side of the big house whenMassa Lea came lurching through the front door. Already red-faced from drinking, he struggled up onto the horse's backand galloped away, weaving in the saddle. Through a half-opened window, Torn could overhear Missis Lea weeping asif her heart would break. Feeling embarrassment for her, hecontinued across the backyard to the blacksmith shed wherehe was just starting to beat a dulled plow point into sharpnesswhen Miss Malizy came again. "Torn," she said, "I 'dare seemlike massa jes' win' up killin' his self he keep on like he going',man nigh onto eighty years of'." "You want to know the truth.Miss Malizy," he replied, "I b'lieve one way or not her dat'swhat he tryin' to do." Massa Lea returned during themidafternoon, accompanied by another white man onhorseback, and from their respective kitchen and blacksmithshop observation posts, both Miss Malizy and Torn saw withsurprise that the pair didn't dismount and enter the big houseto freshen up and share a drink, as was always previouslydone with any guests. Instead, the horses were kept trotting ondown the back road toward the gamecock area. Not hal fan

hour later, Torn and Miss Malizy saw the visitor come backriding rapidly alone, holding under one arm a frightened,clucking game hen and Torn being outside was able to catcha fairly close glimpse of the man's furious expression as herode by. It was at that night's usual slave-row gathering whenLewis told what actually had happened. "When I beared debosses comin'," he said, "I jes' made sho' massa seed meworkin' 'fo' I made myself scarce, over behin' some busheswhere I knowed I could see an' hear. "Well, after some prettyhot bargainin', dey come to a hunnud-dollar 'greement fo' disgame hen settin' on a clutch o' eggs. An' I seen de man countout de money, den massa count it again 'fo' puttin' it in hispocket. Right after den a misunderstandin' commence 'boutde man sayin' de eggs under de hen went wid de deal. Well,massa commence to cussin' like he crazy. He run, grab up dehen an' wid his foot stomped an' squashed dat nest o' eggsinto one mess! Dem two was nigh fightin' when all o' a suddende odder man snatched de hen an' jumped on his boss, yellin'he'd bus' massa's head if he wasn't so damn ol'l" Theuneasiness of the slave-row family deepened with eachpassing day, and nights were spent in fitful sleep resultantfrom worry of whatever might be the next frightful development.Across that 1855 summer and into the fall, with every angryoutburst from the massa, with his every departure or arrival,the rest of the family's eyes involuntarily would turn to thetwenty-two-year-old blacksmith Torn, as if appealing for hisdirection, but Torn offered none. By the crisp November, whenthere had been a fine harvest from the massa's roughly sixty-five acres in cotton and tobacco, which they knew he had

been able to sell for a good price, one Saturday dusk Matildawatched from her cabin window until she saw Tom's lastblacksmithing customer leave, and she hurried out there, herexpression telling him from long experience that somethingspecial was on her mind. "Yas'm, Mammy?" he asked,starting to bank the fire in his forge. "I been thinkin', Torn. Allsix you boys done growed up to be mens now. You ain't myoldes', but I'se yo' mammy an' knows you's got de level esthead," Matilda said. "Plus dat, you's de blacksmith an' dey'sfiel' ban's. So look like you's got to be de main man o' disfam'ly since yo' daddy gone 'bout eight months now"--Matildahesitated, then added loyally, "leas' ways, 'til he git back." Tornwas frankly startled, for ever since his boyhood he had beenhis family's most reserved member. Although he and hisbrothers had all been born and reared on Massa Lea'splantation, he had never become very close with any of them,principally because he had been away for years as ablacksmithing apprentice, and since his return as a man, hewas at the blacksmith shed, while the rest of his brothers wereout in the fields. He had especially little contact anymore withVirgil, Ashford, and L'il George, for differing reasons. Virgil,now twenty-six, spent all his free time over on the adjoiningplantation with his wife Lilly Sue and their recently born son,whom they had named Uriah. As for Ashford, twenty-five, heand Torn had always disliked and avoided each other, andAshford had become more bitter at the world than ever sincea girl he desperately wanted to marry had a massa whorefused to let them jump the broom, calling Ashford an "uppitynigger." And the twenty-four-year-old L'il George, now just

plain fat, was also deep in courtship with an adjoiningplantation's cook, twice his age, which evoked wry familycomments that he would woo anyone who would fill hisstomach. Matilda's telling Torn that she saw him as the familyleader startled him the more since it implied his becomingtheir intermediary with Massa Lea, with whom he intentionallyhad very little actual contact. From when the equipment hadbeen bought to establish a blacksmith shop, the massasomehow had always seemed to respect Tom's quiet reserve,along with his obvious competence at blacksmithing, whichbrought in an increasing flow of customers. They always paidthe massa at the big house for whatever jobs Torn had done,and each Sunday the massa gave Torn two dollars for hisweek's work. Along with Tom's ingrained reticence to talk verymuch with anyone was his equal tendency to ponder deeplyon private thoughts. No one ever would have dreamed that fortwo years or more he had turned over and over again in hismind his father's descriptions of exciting potentials that "upNawth" offered to free black people, and Torn had weighed atgreat length proposing to the whole slave- row family thatinstead of waiting more endless years trying to buy theirfreedom, they should carefully plan and attempt a massescape to the North, He had reluctantly abandoned the idea inrealization that Gran'mammy Kizzy must be well into hersixties, and old Sister Sarah and Miss Malizy, who seemedthe same as family, were in their seventies. He felt that thosethree would have been the quickest to leave, but he seriouslydoubted if any of them would survive the risks and rigors ofsuch a desperate gamble. More recently, Torn had privately

deduced that the massa's recent cockfight loss must havebeen even greater than he had fully revealed. Torn had closelywatched Massa Lea becoming more strained, haggard, andaged with each passing day and each emptied bottle ofwhiskey. But Torn knew that the most disturbing evidence ofsomething deeply amiss was that by now, Lewis declared, themassa had sold off at least half of his chickens, whosebloodlines represented at least halfa century of carefulbreeding. Then Christmas came, and ushered in the NewYear of 1856, as a heavy pall seemed to hang over not onlythe slave row, but also the entire plantation. Then an earlyspring afternoon, another rider came up the entry lane. At firstMiss Malizy appraised him as another chicken buyer. Butthen, seeing how differently the massa greeted this one, shegrew apprehensive. Smiling and chit chatting with the man ashe dismounted, the massa yelled to the nearby L'il George tofeed, water, and stable the horse for the night, then graciouslyMassa Lea squired his visitor inside. Before Miss Malizy evenbegan serving the big-house supper, outside in slave row thefamily members were exchanging fearful questions. "Who datman anyhow?"... "Ain't never seen 'im befo'!".., "Massa ain'tacted like dat no time recenti".. "Well, what you reckon himhere fo'?" They could hardly await the later arrival and reportof Miss Malizy. "Dey ain't talked in my hearin' nothin' 'mount tonothing," she said. "Could be 'cause of' missis was rightdere." Then Miss Malizy went on emphatically, "But somehowor not her I jes' don't nohow like datodder man's looks! Seedtoo many like 'im befo', shifty-eyed an' tryin' to act like dey'ssump'n dey ain't!" A dozen pairs of slave-row eyes were

monitoring the big- house windows from slave row when theobvious movements of a lamp told that Missis Lea had left themen in the living room and made her way upstairs to bed. Theliving room's lamp was still burning when the last of the slave-row family gave up the vigil and went to bed, dreading thedaybreak wake-up bell. Matilda took her blacksmith son asideat her first chance, before breakfast. "Torn, las' night wasn't nochance to tell you private, and ain't wanted to scare ever' bodyto death, but Malizy tol' me she beared massa say he got topay two mor'gage notes on dey house, an' Malizy know deyain't hardly got a penny! I jes' feels to my feets dat white man'sa nigger buyer!" "Me too," Torn said simply. He was silent fora moment. "Mammy, I been thinkin', wid some different massawe jes' might fin' ourselves better off. Dat is, long's we allstays together. Dat's my big worry." As others began to comeout of their cabins for the morning, Matilda hurried away ratherthan unduly alarming them by continuing the conversation.After Missis Lea told Miss Malizy that she had a headacheand wanted no breakfast, the massa and his visitor ate ahearty one, and then set out walking in the front yard, busilytalking, their heads close together. Before very long, theysauntered alongside the big house, into the backyard, andfinally over to where Torn was pumping his homemadebellows, sending yellowish sparks flying up from his forge inwhich two flat sheets of iron were approaching the heatingnecessary for their conversion into door hinges. For severalminutes the two men stood closely watching Torn use long-handled tongs to remove the cherry-red iron sheets. Deftlyfolding their middles tightly about a shaping rod fixed into the

hardy hole of his Fisher & Norris anvil, forming the channel forhinge pins, he then steel-punched three screw holes into eachleaf. Taking up his short-shanked cold chisel and his favoritehomemade four-pound hammer, he cut the leaves into the H-shaped hinges that a customer had ordered, working all thewhile as if unaware of his observers' presence. Massa Leafinally spoke. "He's a pretty fair blacksmith, if I do say somyself," he said casually. The other man grunted affirmatively.Then he began moving around under the little blacksmithingshed, eyeing the many examples of Tom's craftsmanship thathung from nails and pegs. Abruptly, the man addressed Torndirectly. "How old are you, boy?" "Gwine on twenty-three now,sun," "How many young'uns you got?" "Ain't got no wife yet,suh." "Big, strong boy like you don't need no wife to haveyoung'uns scattered everywhere." Torn said nothing, thinkinghow many white men's young'uns were scattered in slaverows. "You maybe one of these real religious niggers?" Tornknew the man was trying to draw him out for a reason--almostcertainly to size him up for purchase. He said pointedly,"Imagines Massa Lea done tol' you we's mostly a family here,my mammy, gran'mammy, an' brothers an' sisters an'young'uns. We's all been raised to believe in de Lawd an' deBible, suh." The man's eyes narrowed. "Which one of y'allreads the Bible to the rest?" Torn wasn't about to tell thisominous stranger that both his gran'mammy and mammycould read. He said, "Reckon we all jes' growed up hearin' deScriptures so much we knows 'em by heart, suh." Seeming torelax, the man returned to his original subject. "You think youcould handle the blacksmithing on a much bigger place than

this one?" Torn felt ready to explode with the furtherconfirmation that his sale was planned, but he had to know ifthe family also was to be included. Through his rage to bedangled in suspense like this, again he probed, "Well, suh,me an' de res' us here can raise crops an' do pret' near ever'thing a place need, I guess"--Leaving the seething Torn ascalmly as they had come, the massa and his guest had nomore than headed out toward the fields when old Miss Malizycame hurrying from the kitchen. "What dem mens sayin', Torn?Missis can't even look me in de eye. "

Trying to control his voice, Torn said,

"It's gwine be some sellin'. Miss Malizy, maybe all us, butcould be jes'- me. " Miss Malizy burst into tears, and Tornroughly shook her shoulders. "Miss Malizy, ain't no need o'eryin'! Jes' like I tol' mammy, I 'speck some new place see usbetter off clan here wid 'im. " But try as Torn would, he couldn'tease the aged Miss Malizy's grief. Late that day the rest ofthem returned from the fields, Tom's brothers wearing grim,stricken faces amid the women's copious weeping andwailing. All of them were trying at once to tell how the massaand his visitor also had come out watching them as theyworked, with the stranger then moving from one to anotherasking questions that left no doubt that they were beingappraised for sale. Until into the wee hours, there was no waythat the three people within the big house could have missedhearing the rising pandemonium of grief and terror that aroseamong the seventeen people in the slave row, most of the

men eventually reacting as hysterically as the women as theyall became seized in the contagion of grabbing and huggingwhomever was nearest, screaming that they would soon neversee each other again. "Lawd, deliver us from dis eeeeevil!"shrieked Matilda in prayer. Torn rang the next morning's wake-up bell with a prescience of doom. Aged Miss Malizy hadpassed by him, making her way to the big-house kitchen toprepare breakfast. and ten minutes later she heavily returnedto slave row, her black face taut with fresh shock andglistening with fresh tears: "Massa say don't nobody gonowhere. He say when he finish break- fas'," he want ever'body 'sembled out here. " Even sick, ancient Uncle Pompeywas brought from his cabin in his chair as all of themassembled, terrified. When Massa Lea and his visitor camearound the side of the big house, Massa Lea's lurching walktold seventeen pairs of eyes that he had been drinking evenmore heavily than usual, and when the pair of them stoppedabout four yards before the slave-row people, the massa'svoice was loud, angry, and slurred. "Y'all niggers keep yournoses always stuck in my business, so ain't no news to youthis place going' broke. Y'all too much burden for me to carryno more, so I'm doin' some seffin' to this gentleman here"--Atthe chorus of shrieks and groans, the other man gesturedroughly. "Shut up! All this carryin' on since last nightl" Heglared up and down the line until they quieted down. "I ain't noordinary nigger trader. I represent one of the biggest, finestfirms in the business. We got branch offices, and boatsdelivering niggers to order between Richmond Charleston,Memphis, and New Orleans"--Matilda cried out the first

anguish in all their minds. " We gwine git sol' together,Massa? " "I told you shut up! You'll find out! I ought not to haveto say your massa here's a true gentleman, same as that finelady up in that house eryin' her heart out about your blackhides. They could get more to sell y'all apiece, plenty more!"He glanced at the quaking L'il Kizzy and Mary. "You twowenches ready right now to start breedin' pickaninnies worthfour hundred an' up apiece." His glance fell on Matilda. "Evenif you git ting pretty old, you said you know how to cook. DownSouth a good cook'll bring twelve to fifteen hundrednowadays." He looked at Torn. "The way prices up now,reckon a prime stud blacksmith can easy fetch twenty-fivehundred, much as three thousand from somebody wants youto take in customers like you doin' here." His eyes scannedacross Tom's five brothers between twenty and twenty-eightyears of age. "And y'all field-hand bucks ought to be worthnine hundred to a thou san apiece"--The slave trader pausedfor effect. "But y'all one lucky bunch of niggers 1 Your missisinsists y'all got to be sold together, and your massa's going'along with that!" "Thank you, Missis! Thank you, Jesus!"Gran'mammy Kizzy cried out. "Praise God!" shrieked Matilda."SHUT UP!" The slave trader angrily gestured. "I've done mybest to convince 'em different, but I ain't been able. And it justhappen my firm's got some customers with a tobaccoplantation ain't too far from here! Right near the North CarolinaRailroad Company over in Alamance County. They're wantin' afamily of niggers that's been together an' won't give no trouble,no runaways or nothin' like that, an' with experience to handleeverything on their place. Won't need no auctionin' you off. I'm

told won't need no chainin' you up, nothin' like that, less'n Ihave some trouble!" He surveyed them coldly. "All right, startin'right now, y'all I've spoke to consider yourselves my niggers 'tilI get you where you're going'. I'm givin' you four days to putyour stuff together. Saturday morning we'll get you moving overto Alamance County in some wagons." Virgil was the first tofind a stricken voice: "What 'bout my Lilly Sue an' chile over atthe Curry place? You gwine buy dem too, ain't you, suh?"

Torn burst out,

"An' what 'bout our gran'mammy. Sister Sarah, Miss Malizy,an' Uncle Pompey? Dey's fam'ly you ain't mentioned"--"Ain'tmeant to! Can't be buyin' every wench some buck's laid with,so he won't feel lonely!" the slave trader exclaimedsarcastically. "As for these old wrecks here, they can't hardlywalk, let alone work, no customers gonna buy them! But Mr.Lea's being good enough to let 'em keep dragging on aroundhere." Amid an outburst of exclamations and weeping, Gran'-mammy Kizzy sprang squarely before Massa Lea, wordsripping from her throat. "You done sent off yo' own boy, can't Iteas' have gran'chilluns?" As Massa Lea quickly looked away,she slumped toward the ground, young, strong arms grabbingand supporting her, while old Miss Malizy and Sister Sarahscreamed almost as one, "Dey's all de fam'ly I got, Massa!"."Me, too, Massa! We's fifty-some years togedder!" The invalidancient Uncle Pompey just sat, unable to rise from his chair,tears streaming down his cheeks, staring blankly straightahead, his lips moving as in prayer. "SHUT UP!" the slave

trader yelled. "I'm tellin' you the last time! You find out quick Iknow how to handle-niggers! " Tom's eyes sought and lockedfor a fleeting instant with those of Massa Lea, and Tornhoarsely fully chose words, "Massa, we's sho' sorry you's metbad luck, an' we knows only reason you's sellin' us is you gotto"--Massa Lea seemed almost grateful before his eyes againbent downward, and they had to strain to hear him. "Naw, Iain't got nothin' 'against none of y'all, boy"--He hesitated."Fact, I'd even call y'all good niggers, most of y'all bornandjbred up right on my place." "Massa," gently Torn begged,"if dem Alamance County peoples won't take our family's of'folks, ain't it some way you lemme buy 'em from you? Dis mandone jes' say dey ain't worth much in money, an' I pay yougood price. I git on my knees an' beg de new massa lemmefin' some hire-out blaeksmithin', maybe for dat railroad, an' mybrothers hire out and he'p too, suh." Torn was abjectlypleading, tears now starting down his cheeks, "Massa, all wemakes we sends you 'til we pays whatever you ax fo'Gran'mammy and dese three mo' dat's fam'ly to us. All we'sbeen through togedder, we sho' 'predate stayin' to- gedder,Massa"--Massa Lea had stiffened. But he said, "Awright! Getme three hundred dollars apiece, you can have 'em"--Hispalm shot up before their exultation could fully erupt "Hoi' on!They stay here 'til the money's in my hand!" Amid the groansand sobs, Tom's voice came, bleak, "Us kinda spected mondat from you, Massa, side ring everything." "Get 'em out ofhere, trader!" the massa snapped. Turning on his heel, hewalked rapidly toward the big house. Back in the desperatelydespairing slave row, even old Miss Malizy and Sister Sarah

were among those comforting Gran'mammy Kizzy. She sat inher rocking chair, that Torn had made for her, amid the welterof her family hugging; kissing her, wetting her with their tears.Everyone was crying. From somewhere she found thestrength, the courage to rasp hoarsely, "Don' y'all take on so!Me an' Sarah, Malizy, an' Pompey jes' wait here for George 'tilhe gits back. Ain't gwine be dat long, it's awready gwine on detwo years. Ifn he ain't got de money to buy us, den I 'speckwon't take much mo' time 'fo' Torn an' res' y'all boys will"--Ashford gulped, "Yes'm, we sho' will!" Wanly she smiled athim, at them all. " " Nother thing," Gran'mammy Kizzy went on," any y'all gits mo' chilluns 'fo' I sees you ag'in, don't for git totell 'em 'bout my folks, my mammy Bell, an' my African pappyname Kunta Kinte, what be yo' chill un great-great-gran'pappy!Hear me, now! Tell 'em 'bout me, 'bout my George, 'boutyo'selves, tool An' 'bout what we been through 'midst dmeren'mass as Tell de chilluns all de res' about who we is! " Amid asnuffling chorus of "We sho' will"... "Ain't gon' never fo'git,Gran'mammy," she brushed the nearest faces with her hand."SHUSH, now! Ever'thing gwine be fine! Heish up, done tol'you! Y'all gwine flood me right out de do'!" Pour dayssomehow passed with those who were leaving gettingpacked, and finally Saturday morning came. Everyone hadbeen up through most of the night. With scarcely a worduttered, they gathered, holding each other's hands, watchingthe sun come up. Finally the wagons arrived. One by onethose who were leaving turned silently to embrace those whowere to remain behind. "Where's Uncle Pompey?"askedsomeone. Miss Malizy said, "Po' of' soul tol' me las' night he

couldn't stan' to see y'all go" "I run kiss 'im, anyhow!"exclaimed L'il Kizzy, and went mnning toward the cabin. In alittle while, they heard her: "Oh, NO!" Others already on theground, or leaping from the wagon, went dashing. The oldman sat there in his chair. And he was dead.

CHAPTER 105

On the new plantation, it wasn't until the next Sunday, whenMassa and Missis Murray drove off in their buggy to attendchurch services, that the whole family had a chance to sitdown together for a talk. "Well, I sho' ain't want to judge tooquick," said Matilda, looking around at all of her brood, "but allthrough de week me an' Missis Murray done plenty talkin' inde kitchen whilst I been cookin'. I got to say she an' dis newmassa sound's like good Christian peoples. I feels like we'sgwine be whole lot better off here, 'cept yo' pappy still ain'tback, an' Gran'mammy an' dem still at Massa Lea's." Againstudying her children's faces, she asked, "Well, from whaty'all's seed an' beared, how y'all feel?" Virgil spoke. "Well, disMassa Murray don't seem like he know much 'bout farmin', orbeing' no massa, neither." Matilda interrupted. "Dat's 'causedey was town folks runnin' a sto' in Burlington, 'til his uncledied an' in 'is will lef 'em dis place."

Virgil said,

"Ever' time he done talked to me, he's said he lookin' fo' awhite oberseer to hire to work us. I done kept tellin' 'im ain't noneed to spend dat money, dat worsen a oberseer he needed

leas five, six mo' fiel' ban's. Tol' 'im jes' give us chance, weraise 'im good tobacco crops by ourself"--Ashford broke in, "Iain't stayin' long nowhere wid no cracker oberseer trackin'every move!" After a pointed look at Ashford, Virgil went on."Massa Murray say he watch awhile an' see how we do." Hepaused. "I jes' 'bout begged 'im to buy my Lilly Sue an young'un from Massa Curry back yonder an' bring 'em here. Tol' 'imLilly Sue work hard as anybody he ever gon' git. He say hethink 'bout it, but to buy us, dey already done had to take out abank mor'gage on de big house, an' he see how much 'baccyhe sell dis year." Virgil paused. "So we all got to pitch in! I cantell odder white folks been givin' 'im plenty advisin' niggerswon't half work by deyselves. Let 'im see any hangin' back an'playin' roun', we sho' liable win' up wid some oberseer."Glancing again at the sullen Ashford, Virgil added, "Fac', I'speck it be good when Massa Murray ride out where we'sworkin' I'll holler at y'all some, but y'all know why." "Sho'l" burstout Ashford, "you an' somebody else I knows always tries tobe massa's special nigger!" Torn tensed, but managed toseem as if he totally ignored Ashford's remark while Virgil halfrose, lancing forward a work-callused forefinger, "Boy, lemmetell you, sump'n wrong anybody don' git 'long wid nobody!Gwine git you in big trouble one dese days! Jes' speakin' fo'myself, if'n it he's wid me, somebody gwine carry off one us!""Heish! Bofe y'all heish up dat mess!" Matilda glared at themboth, then particularly at Ashford, before turning an entreatinglook onto Torn, clearly seeking an easing of the suddentension. "Torn, whole lot o' times I seen you an' Massa Murraytalkin' down dere while you puttin' up yo' shop. What's yo'

feelin's?"

Slowly, thoughtfully, Torn said,

"I 'gree we ought to be better off here. But 'pend a lot on howwe handles it. Like you said, Massa Murray don't 'pear nomean, lowdown white man. I feel like Virgil say, he jes' ain'thad much 'sperience to put no trus' in us. Even mon dat, Ibleeve he worried we git to figgerin' he's easy, dat's howcome he make his self act an' sound' harder'n he na'chly is,an' dat's how come de oberseer talk." Torn paused. "Way Isees it, mammy handle de missis. Res' us needs to teach demassa he do fine jes' leave us 'lone. " After murmurs ofapproval, Matilda's tone was vibrant with her joy at clearly apotentially promising family future, "Well, now, linin' it up, 'longwid what y'all says, we's got to 'suade Massa Murray to buyLilly Sue an' dat 1'il Uriah, too. "Bout y'all's pappy, ain't nothin'we can do but jes' wait. He walk in here one dese days"--Giggling, Mary interrupted, "Wid dat green scarf trailin', an'black derby settin' upon his head!" "Sho' right 'bout dat,daughter," Matilda smiled with the others. She went on. "An''cose I ain't even got to say 'bout git ting Gran'mammy, Sarah,an' Malizy. I already got Missis Murray promised to he'p widdat. "Scribed toer stronges' I could how it jes' 'bout tore us allup to have to leave 'em. Lawd! Missis got to cryin' hard as Iwas! She say weren't no use nobody includin' her axin' MassaMurray to buy no three real of' womens, but she promisefaithful she ax massa to git Torn hire-out jobs, an' de res' y'allboys, too. Sole all keep in mind we ain't jes' here workin' for

not her massa, we's workin' to git our fam'ly back to- gedder. "With that resolve, the family settled into the planting season of1856, with Matilda commanding the increasing trust andappreciation of both Missis and Massa Murray through herclear loyalty and sincerity, her excellent cooking, and herspotless housekeeping. The massa saw how Virgil steadilyurged and pressed his brothers and sisters toward a bumpertobacco crop. He saw Torn visibly putting the plantation into anenviable state of repair, his talented hands wielding his mostlyhomemade tools, transforming foraged old rusted, discarded,scrap iron into eventually scores of sturdy new farming toolsand implements, along with both functional and decorativehousehold items. Nearly every Sunday afternoon, unless theMurrays had gone off somewhere themselves, various of thelocal plantation families would pay them welcoming visits,along with their old friends from Burlington, Graham, HawRiver, Mebane, and other towns around. In showing theirguests about the big house and yards, the Murrays alwaysproudly pointed out different examples of Tom'scraftsmanship. Few of their farm or township guests leftwithout urging that the massa permit Torn to make or repairsomething for them, and Massa Murray would agree.Gradually more of Tom's custom-made articles appearedabout Ala- mance County, as word of mouth further advertisedhim, and Missis Murray's original request that the massa seekhire-out jobs for Torn became entirely unnecessary. Soon,every day saw slave men, young and old, come riding onmules, or sometimes afoot, bringing broken tools or otheritems for Torn to fix. Some mass as or missis sketched

decorative items they wanted made for their homes. Orsometimes customers' requests required that Massa Murraywrite out a traveling pass for Torn to ride a mule to otherplantations, or into local towns, to make on-site repairs orinstallations. By 1857, Torn was working from dawn to darkevery day excepting Sundays, his over-all volume of work atleast equaling that of Mr. Isaiah, who had taught him. Thecustomers would pay Massa Murray, either at the big house orwhen they saw him at church, such rates as fourteen cents ahoof for the shoeing of horses, mules, or oxen, thirty-sevencents for a new wagon tire, eighteen cents to mend apitchfork, or six cents to sharpen a pick. Prices for customer-designed decorative work were specially negotiated, such asfive dollars for a trellis-shaped front gate adorned with oakleaves. And each weekend Massa Murray figured out forTom's pay ten cents of each dollar that his work had brought induring the previous week. After thanking the massa, Torn gavethe weekly sum to his mother Matilda, who soon had it buriedin one of her glass jars whose locations only she and Tornknew. On Saturday noons the workweek ended for the family'sfield hands. L'il Kizzy and Mary, now nineteen and seventeen,respectively, quickly bathed, wrapped their short, kinky braidstightly with string, and rubbed their faces to shiny blacknesswith beeswax. Then donning their best starchily ironed cotton-print dresses, they soon appeared at the blacksmith shop,one bringing a pitcher of water, or sometimes lemon egg withthe other carrying a gourd dipper. Once Torn had quenchedhis thirst, they next offered welcomed gourdfuls among eachSaturday afternoon's invariable small gathering of slave men

whose mass as had sent them to pick up items that Torn hadpromised to complete by the weekend. Torn noted, with wryamusement, how his sisters' lightest, gayest banter wasalways with the better-looking younger men. One Saturdaynight he was not surprised to overhear Matilda shrilly voicingchastisement: "I ain't blin'! Sees y'all down dere flouncing yo'tails 'mongst dem mens!" L'il Kizzy came back defiantly, "Well,Mammy, we's wimmins! Ain't met no mens at Massa Lea's! "Matilda loudly muttered something that Torn couldn'tdistinguish, but he suspected that she was privately lessdisapproving than she was trying to act. It was confirmedwhen, shortly after, Matilda said to him, "Look like you lettin'dem two gals go to courtin' right under yo' nose. Reckon deleas' you can do is keep out a eye it ain't de wrong ones deyhooks up wid!" To the entire family's astonishment, not theparticularly "flouncy" L'il Kizzy but the much quieter Mary soonquietly announced her wish to "jump de broom" with a stablehand from a plantation near the village of Mebane. Shepleaded to Matilda, "I knows you can he'p 'suade massa tosell me reasonable when Nicodemus' massa ax 'im 'bout it.Mammy, so us can live togedder!" But Matilda only mutteredvaguely, sending Mary into tears. "Lawd, Torn, I jes' don't knowhow to feel!" Matilda said. " " Cose I'se happy fo' de gal, I seeshe so happy. But jes' hates to see any us sol' off no mo'. ""You's wrong. Mammy. You knows you is!" Torn said. "I sho'wouldn't want to be married wid nobody livin" somewhereelse. Look what happened to Virgil. Ever since we got sol',you can see he sick 'bout Lilly Sue lef back yonder. " "Son,"she said, "don't tell me being' married to somebody you don't

never hardly see! Whole lot o' times, looking at y'all chillunshe'p me know I got a husban'"--Matilda hesitated. "But git tingback to Mary leavin', ain't jes' her on my min', it's all y'all. Youworkin' so much guess you ain't paid no tent ion but onSundays off nowadays don' hardly never see yo' bruddersroun' here no mo', jes' you an' Virgil. De res' all off co'tin'heavy"--"Mammy," Torn sharply interrupted, "we's grownmens!" "Sho' you is!" retorted Matilda. "Ain't what I'm git tingat! I'se meanin' it look like dis fam'ly gwine split to de winds'fo' we ever gits it back togedder!" In a silent moment betweenthem, Torn was trying to think of what comforting thing hemight say, sensing that underlying his mother's recent quickirritability or un accustomed depressions were the monthsnow passed beyond when his father should have returned. Asshe had just mentioned, she was again living with hisabsence. Torn was shocked when abruptly Matilda glanced athim, "When you gwine git married?" "Ain't thinkin' 'bout datnow"--Embarrassed, he hesitated, and changed the subject."Thinkin' 'bout us git ting back Gran'mammy, Sister Sarah, an'Miss Malizy. Mammy, 'bout how much we got saved up now?""No 'bout! Tell you 'zactly! Dat two dollars an' fo' cents you giveme las' Sunday make it eighty-seben dollars an' fi'ty-twocents." Torn shook his head. "Tse got to do better"--"Sho' wishVirgil an' dem was he' ping mo'." "Can't blame dem. Hire-outfiel' work jes' hard to fin, 'cause mos' mass as needin' it hiresfree niggers what works fit to kill deyselves to git dat twenty-five cents a day less'n dey starves. I jes' got to make mo'lGran'mammy, Sister Sarah, an' Miss Malizy, dey's all git tingof'I" "Yo' gran'mammy right roun' sebenty now, an' Sarah an'

Malizy nigh 'bout eighty." A sudden thought struck Matilda; herfeatures took on a faraway expression. "Torn, you know whatjes' come to me? Yo' gran'mammy use to say her Africanpappy kep' up wid how of' he was by droppin I'll rocks in agourd. You 'member her sayin' dat?" "Yas'm, sho' does." Hepaused. "Wonder how of' was he?" "Ain't never heard, teas'not to my recollection." A puzzlement grew on her face."Would 'pend when was you talkin' 'bout. He'd o' been oneage when Gran'mammy Kizzy was sol' from him an' hermammy. Den he'd o' been not her age whenever de Lawdclaimed 'im"--She hesitated. "Wid Gran'mammy pushin'seb'my, you know her pappy got to be long dead'n gone. Hermammy, too. Po' souls!" "Yeah"--said Torn, musing."Sometime I wonders what dey looked like. Done beared somuch 'bout 'em. "

Matilda said,

"Me, too, son." She straightened in her chair. "But git tingback toyo gran'mammy, Sarah, an Malizy, every night down onmy knees, I jes' ax de Lawd to be wid 'em an' I prays any dayyo' pappy git dere wid lump o' money in 'is pocket an' buy'em." She laughed brightly. "One mawnin' we looks up an'dere all fo' be, free as birds!" "Dat be sho' one sight to see!"grinned Torn. A silence fell between them, each in their privatethoughts. Torn was pondering that now was as good a timeand atmosphere as any to confide in his mother something hehad kept carefully guarded from anyone, but which now didseem likely to develop further. He used as his avenue an

earlier query of Matilda's. "Mammy, while back you ax ifn Iever think maybe 'bout git ting married?" Matilda jerkedupright, her face and eyes alight. "Yeah, son?" Torn could havekicked himself for ever having brought it up. He all butsquirmed seeking how to go on. Then, firmly, "Well, I'se kindamet a gal, an' we been talkin' some"--"Lawd-a-mussy, TornIWho?" "Ain't nobody you knows! Her name Irene. Some calls'er "Reeny." She b'longst to dat Massa Edwin Holt, work indey big house"--" De rich Massa Holt massa and missis talks'bout own dat cotton mill on Alamance Creek? " "Yas'm"--"Deybig house where you put up dem pretty window grills?""Yas'm"--Tom's expression was rather like that of a small boycaught taking cookies. "Lawdl" A beaming spread acrossMatilda's face. "Somebody cotched of' coon at las'!"Springing up, suddenly embracing her embarrassed son, sheburbled, "I'se so happy fo' y'all, Torn, sho' is!" "Hof on! Hoi' on.Mammy!" Extricating himself, he gestured her back towardher chair. "I jes' say we been talkin'." "Boy, you's my close-mouth des young' un since you first drawed breath! If you 'mitsyou's much as seed a gal, I know it mo' to it clan dat!" He allbut glared at her. "Don' want no whisperin' to nobody, you hearme?" "I know massa buyer fo' you, boy! Tell me mo' 'bout 'er,TornI" So much was tumbling in Matilda's head that it pouredout together... across the back of her mind flashed a vision ofthe wedding cakes she would bake. "Gittin' late, got to go"--But she beat him to the door. "So glad somebody be catchin'all y'all young'uns 'fo' long! You's jes' my bes'!" Matilda'slaughter was the happiest Torn had seen her in a long time."Gittin' older, guess I'se same as Gran'mammy Kizzy, wantin'

mo' gran'chilluns!" Torn brushed past, hearing her as hestrode outside, "I live long 'enough, might even see somegreat-gran'chillunsi"

CHAPTER 106

A Sunday several months before, Massa and Missis Mur- rayhad returned home from church, and the massa almostimmediately rang the bell for Matilda, whom he told to haveTorn come around to the front porch. The massa's pleasurewas showing both in his face and in his tone as he told Tornthat Mr. Edwin Holt, who owned the Holt Cotton Mill. had senthim a message that Missis Holt had recently been highlyimpressed with seeing some of Tom's delicate ironwork; thatshe had already sketched a design for decorative windowgrills that they hoped that Torn could soon make and install attheir "Locust Grove" home. With a traveling pass from MassaMurray, Torn left on a mule early the next morning to see thesketches and measure the windows. Massa Murray had toldhim not to worry about whatever jobs awaited doing in hisshop, and the massa said that the best route was to follow theHaw River Road to the town of Graham, then the GrahamRoad to Bellemont Church, where after a right turn and aboutanother two miles, the elegant Holt mansion would beimpossible to miss. Arriving and identifying himself to a blackgardener, Torn was told to wait near the front steps. MissisHolt herself soon came pleasantly congratulating Tom'sprevious work that she had seen, and showing him hersketches, which he carefully studied for an iron window grill

having the visual effect of a trellis amply covered with vinesand leaves. "B'leeves I can do dem, leas' I try my bes'.Missis," he said, but he pointed out that with so manywindows needing the grills, each of which would require muchpatiently tedious work, the completing of the task might taketwo months. Missis Holt said she would be delighted if it couldbe done in that time, and handing Torn her sketches to keepand work by, she left him to go about his necessary startingjob of carefully measuring the many windows' dimensions. Bythe early afternoon, Torn was working on the upstairs windowsopening onto a veranda when his instincts registeredsomeone watching him, and glancing about, he blinked at thestriking prettiness of the coppery-complexioned girl holding adust rag who stood quietly just within the next opened window.Wearing a simple housemaid's uniform, her straight black haircoiled into a large bun at the back of her head, she was evenlybut warmly returning Tom's stare. Only his lifelong innatereserve enabled him to mask his jolting inner reaction as,collecting himself, and quickly removing his hat, he blurted,"Hidy, miss." "Hidy do, suhl" she replied, flashing a brightsmile, and with that she disappeared. Finally riding back tothe Murray plantation, Torn was surprised, and unsettled, thathe couldn't rid his mind of her. Lying in his bed that night, it hithim like a bolt that he hadn't even gotten her name. Heguessed her age at nineteen or maybe twenty. At last he slept,fitfully, and awakened torturing himself that her prettinessguaranteed that she was married, or surely was courting withsomebody. Making the basic grill frames, smoothly lap-welding four pre cut flat iron bars into window-sized

rectangles, was only a routine job. After six days of doing that,Torn began forcing white-hot rods through his set ofsuccessively smaller steel reducing dies until he had long rodsno thicker than ivy or honeysuckle vines. After Torn hadexperimentally heated and variously bent several of these,dissatisfied, he began taking early-morning walks, closelyinspecting actual growing vines' graceful curvings andjunctures. Then he bad a sense that his efforts to simulatethem improved. The work went along well, with Massa Murrayexplaining daily to sometimes irate customers that Torn couldattend only the most urgent emergency repair jobs until he hadfinished a major job for Mr. Edwin Holt, which blunted theindignance of most. Massa Murray, then Missis Murray cameto the shop to observe, then they brought visiting friends, untilsometimes eight or ten of them stood silently watching Tornwork. Plying his craft, he thought how blessed he was that allpeople seemed even to expect being ignored by blacksmithsengrossed in what they were doing. He reflected upon howmost slave men who brought him their mass as repairing jobsusually seemed either morose, or they big-talked among otherslaves about the shop. But if any white people appeared, inthe instant, all of the slaves grinned, shuffled, and otherwisebegan acting the clown, as in fact Torn often previously had feltembarrassed to conclude privately of his own derby-wearing,bombastic- talking father, Chicken George. Torn felt furtherblessed with how sincerely he enjoyed feeling immersed, to adegree even isolated, within his world of blacksmithing. As heworked on the window grills from the daylights until he couldno longer see, his private random musings would occupy his

mind sometimes for hours before he again caught himselfthinking of the pretty housemaid he had met. Making theleaves for the window grills would be his toughest test, he hadrealized from when Missis Holt first showed him her sketches.Again Torn walked, now intently studying nature's leaves.Heating and reheating inch-square iron pieces, beating themwith his heavy, square-faced hammer into delicately thinsheets, with his trimming shears he cut out eventually scoresof oversized heart-shaped patterns. Since such thin metalcould quickly burn and ruin if a forge was too hot, he pumpedhis homemade bellows with utmost care, hastily longing eachred-hot thin sheet onto his anvil and deftly shaping it into leafycontours with quick tappings of his lightest ball-peen hammer." With intricate welding, Torn delicately veined his leaves, andnext stemmed them onto the vines. He felt it good that no twolooked exactly the same, as he had observed in nature.Finally, in his seventh intensive week, Torn spot- welded hisleafy vines onto their waiting window-grill frames. "Torn, I 'darelook like dey jes' growin' somewheres!" Matilda exclaimed it,staring in awe at her son's ship. Scarcely less demonstrativewas L'il Kizzy, who by now was flirting openly with three localyoung slave swains. Even Tom's brothers and their wives--onlyAshford and Torn were single now--cast glances that mirroredtheir further heightened respect for him. Massa and MissisMurray could hardly contain the extent of their pleasure, aswell as their pride, that they owned such a blacksmith. In thewagon laden with window grills, Torn drove alone to the Holtbig house to install them. When he held up one for Missis Holtto inspect, exclaiming, and clapping her hands, ecstatic with

pleasure, she called outside her teenaged daughter andseveral grown young sons who happened to be there, and allof them joined instantly in congratulating Torn. Right away, hebegan the installations. After two hours, the downstairswindow grills were in place, being further admired by the Holtfamily members, as well as several of their slaves; heguessed that their grapevine must have sped word of theirmissis' delight and they had come running to see forthemselves. Where was she? Torn was tense from wonderingit as one of the Holt sons directed him through the polisheddownstairs foyer to mount the curving stairs to install theremaining grills at the second-floor veranda windows. It wasthe very area where she had been before. How, whom, mighthe query, without seeming more than curiously interested, asto who she was, where she was, and what was her status? Inhis frustration, Torn went at his work even faster; he must finishquickly and leave, he told himself. He was installing the thirdupstairs window grill when after a rush of footsteps there shewas, flushed, nearly breathless from hurrying. He stood justtongue-tied. "Hidy, Mr. Murray!" It jolted him to realize shewouldn't know"Lea,"only that a Massa Murray owned him now.He fumbled off his straw hat. "Hidy, Miss Holt...." "Was down inde smokehouse smokin' meat, jes' beared you was here" Hergaze swept to the last window grill he had fixed into place."Ooh, it jes' beautiful!" she breathed. "Passed Missis Emilydownstairs jes' havin' a fit 'bout what you done." His glanceflicked her field-hand head rag "I thought you was ahousemaid"--It sounded such an inane thing to say. "I lovesdoin' different things, an' dey lets me," she said, glancing

about. "I jes' run up here a minute. Better git back to workin',an' you, too"--He had to know more, at least her name. Heasked her. "Irene," she said. "Dey calls me "Reeny. Whatyour'n?" "Torn," he said. As she had said, they had 'to getback to work. He had to gamble. "Miss Irene, is--is youkeepin' company wid anybody?" She looked at him so long,so hard, he knew he had terribly blundered. "I ain't never beenknowed for not speakin' my mind, Mr. Murray. When I seedbefo' how shy you was, I was scairt you wouldn't come talkwith me no mo'." Torn could have fallen off the veranda. Fromthen, he had begun asking Massa Murray for an all-daytraveling pass each Sunday, along with permission to use themule cart He told his family as well that he searched theroadsides for discarded metal objects to freshly supply hisblacksmith shop scrap pile. He nearly always did findsomething useful while driving different routes in the round tripof about two hours each way to see Irene. Not only she, but theothers whom he met at the Holts' slave row could not havereceived or treated him more warmly. "You's so shy, smart asyou is, folks jes' likes you," Irene candidly told him. They wouldride usually to some reasonably private fairly nearby placewhere Torn would unhitch the mule to let it graze on a longtether as they walked, with Irene doing by far the most talking."My pappy a Injun, He name Hillian, my mammy say. Dat'count fo' de 'culiar color I is," Irene volunteered matter-of-factly. "Way back, my mammy run off from a real mean massa,an' in de woods some Injuns cotched her an' took her to deyvillage where her an' my pappy got to- gedder an' I got homed.I weren't much size when some white mens 'tacked de village,

an' 'mongst de killin' captured my mammy an' brung us backto her massa. She say he beat her bad an' sol' us to somenigger trader, an' Massa Holt bought us, what was lucky,'cause dey's high-quality folks"--Her eyes nan-owed. "Well,leas' mos'ly. Anyhow, Mammy was dey washin' an' ironin'woman, right up 'til she took sick an' died 'bout fo' years back,an' I been here ever since. I'se eighteen now, gwine turnnineteen New Year's Day"She looked at Torn in her frank way."How of is you?" "Twenty-fo'," Torn said. Telling Irene in turnthe essential facts about his family, Torn said that as yet theyhad but little knowledge of this new region of North Carolinainto which they had been sold. "Well," she said, "I's picked upa heap 'cause de Holts is mighty port ant folks, so nigh ever'body big comes visitin', an' ginly I he's servin' an' I got ears.""Dey says mos' dese Alamance County white folks' greatgreat-gran'daddies come here from Pennsylvania long 'fo' datRevolution War, when wasn't much nobody here bouts 'ceptSissipaw Injuns. Some calls 'em Saxapaws. But English whiteso'jers kilt dem out 'til Saxapaw River de only thing even gotdey name now"--Irene grimaced. "My massa say dey'd runfrom hard times crost de water an' was crowdingPennsylvania so bad dem Englishmans runnin' de Colonies'nounced all de lan' dey wanted be sellin' in dis part NawthCa'Iiny fo' less'n two cents a acre. Well, massa say no end o'Quakers, Presbyterian Scotch-Irishers, an' Ger- manLutherans squeezed ever' thing dey could in covered wagonsan' crost dem Cumberian' an' Shenando' valleys. Massa saysump'n like fo' hundred miles. Dey bought what lan' dey couldan' commence diggin', clearin', an' farmin', jes' mo sly small

farms dey worked deyselves, like mos' dis county's white folkshere bouts still does. Dat's how come ain't many niggers aswhere it's great big plantations." Irene toured Torn on thefollowing Sunday to her massa's cotton mill on a bank ofAlamance Creek, prideful as if both the mill and the Holt familywere her own. After his hard work attending weekly scores ofblacksmithing jobs, Torn coveted each next Sunday when thecart rolled past the miles of split-rail fences enclosing crops ofcorn, wheat, tobacco, and cotton, with an occasional apple orpeach orchard and modest farmhouses. Passing otherblacks, who were nearly always afoot, they exchanged waves,Torn hoping they understood that if he offered a ride, it wouldrob his privacy with Irene. Abruptly stopping the mulesometimes, he would jump out and throw into the cart's rearsome rusty discarded metal he had spied while driving. OnceIrene startled him, also jumping out, picking a wild rose. "Eversince I was a 1'il gal I'se loved roses," she told him. Meetingwhite people also out driving, or on horseback, Torn and Irenewould become as two statues, with both them and the whitepeople staring straight ahead. Torn commented after a whilethat since in Alamance County he felt he had seen fewer "po'cracker" type of whites than abounded where he previouslylived. "I knows dem turkey-gobbler rednecks kin' you mean,"she said. "Naw, ain't many roun' here. Any you sees He's gin'lyjes' passin' through. De big white folks haves less use fo' 'emclan dey does niggers. " Torn expressed surprise at how Ireneseemed to know something of every crossroads store theypassed, or church, schoolhouse, wagon shop, or whatever."Well, I jes' hears massa tellin' guests how his folks had

sump'n to do wid pret' near ever' thing in Alamance County,"was how Irene explained it; then identifying a gristmill that theywere passing as belonging to her massa, she said, "He turnlotta his wheat into flour, an' his cawn into whiskey to sell inFayetteville." Privately, Torn gradually wearied of what beganto sound to him as if Irene relished a running chronology ofimplied praises of her owner and his family. A Sunday whenthey ventured into the county-seat town of Graham, she said,"De year dat big California gol' rush, my massa's daddy'mongst de big mens what bought de lan' an' built dis town tobe de county seat." The next Sunday, as they drove along theSalisbury Road, she pointed out a prominent rock marker,"Right dere on massa's gran'daddy's plantation dey fought deBattle o' Alamance. Folks sick o' dat King's bad treatmentstook dey guns to his redcoats, an' massa say dat battle whatlit de fuse fo' de "Mexican Revolution War roun' five years lateron." By this time, Matilda had grown irate. It had strained herpatience to the limit to suppress the exciting secret for solong. "Wha's de matter wid you? Ack like you don't wantnobody to see yo' Injun gal!" Checking his irritance, Torn onlymumbled something unintelligible, and an exasperatedMatilda hit below the belt. "Maybe she too good fo' us 'causeshe b'longst to sich big-shot folks!" For the first time Torn hadever done such a thing, he stalked away from his mother,refusing to dignify that with a reply. He wished there wassomeone, anyone, with whom he could talk about what hadbecome his deep uncertainties regarding his continuing tokeep company with Irene. He had finally admitted to himselfhow much he loved her. Along with her pretty mixed black and

Indian features, unquestionably she was as charming,tantalizing, and smart a potential mate as he would havedreamed for. Yet being as inherently deliberate and careful ashe was, Torn felt that unless two vital worries he haddeveloped about Irene got solved, they could never enjoy atruly successful union. For one thing, deep within, Torn neithercompletely liked, nor completely trusted any white person, hisown Massa and Missis Murray included. It seriously botheredhim that Irene seemed actually to adore if not worship thewhites who owned her; it strongly suggested that they wouldnever see eye to eye on a vital matter. His second concern,seeming even less soluble, was that the Holt family seemedscarcely less devoted to Irene, in the way that someprosperous massa families often came to regard certainhousehold slaves. He knew that he could never survive thecharade of mating with any woman, then living apart ondifferent plantations, involving the steady indignity of theirhaving to ask their respective mass as to approve occasionalmarital visits. Torn had even given thought to what might bethe most honorable way, though he knew that any would beexcruciating, to withdraw from seeing Irene any further. "Whatde matter, Torn?" she asked him on the next Sun- day, hertone full of concern. "Ain't nothin'." They rode on silently for awhile. Then she said in her candid, open manner, "Well, ain'tgwine press you if you don't want to say, jes' long as youknows I knows sump'n workin hard on you." Hardly aware ofthe reins in his hands, Torn thought that among Irene'squalities that he most admired were her frankness andhonesty, yet for weeks, months, he had been actually

dishonest with her, in the sense that he had evaded telling herhis true thoughts, however painful it might prove to them both.And the longer be delayed would be continued dishonesty, aswell as dragging out his bitter frustrations. Torn strained tosound casual. "While back, 'member I tol' you how my brudderVirgil's wife had to stay with her massa when us got sol'?" Itbeing unconnected with his point, he did not speak of howafter his own recent personal appeal, Massa Murray hadtraveled to Caswell County and successfully had purchasedLilly Sue and her son Uriah.

Forcing himself to go on, Torn said,

"Jes' feel like if I was ever maybe git thinkin' 'bout matin' upwid anybody... well, jes' don't b'leeve I could ifn we s'pose tobe livin' on different mass as plantations." "Me neither!" Herresponse was so quickly emphatic that Torn nearly droppedthe reins, doubting his ears. He jerked about toward her,agape. "What you mean?" he stammered. "Same as you jes'said!" He practically accosted her. "You know Massa an'Missis Holt ain't gwine sell you!" "I git sol' whenever I gitsready!" She looked at him calmly. Torn felt a weaknesscoursing throughout his body. "How you talkin' " bout? " "Notmeanin' to sound' short, dat ain't yo' worry, it he's mine."

Limply, Torn heard himself saying,

"Well, why'n't you git sol' den"--She seemed hesitant. Henearly panicked.

She said,

"Awright. You got any special time?" "Reckon dat up to you,too"--His mind was racing. What earthly sum would her massademand for such a prize as she was. if this was not all somewild dream in the first place? "You got to ax yo' massa if hebuy me." "He buy you," he said with more certainty than he felt.He felt like a fool then, asking, "How much you reckon you becostin'? Reckon he need to have a idea o' dat." " Speck dey'Utake whatever he offer, reasonable. " Torn just stared at her,and Irene at him. "Torn Murray, you's in some ways de'zasperatin'es' man I'se ever seed! I could o' tol' you dat sincede day we firs' met! Long as I been waitin' fo' you to saysump'nl You jes' wait 'til I gits hoi' o' you, gwine knock outsome dat stubbornness! " He scarcely felt her small fistspummeling his head, his shoulders, as he took his first womaninto his arms, the mule walking without guidance. That night,lying abed, Torn began to see in his mind's eye how he wasgoing to make for her a rose of iron. In a trip to the county seathe must buy only a small bar of the finest newly wrought iron.He must closely study a rose, how its stem and base werejoined, how the petals spread, each curving outward in its ownway... how to heat the iron bar to just the orange redness forits quickest hammering to the wafer thinness from which hewould trim the rose petals' patterns that, once reheated andtenderly, lovingly shaped, would be dipped into brine mixedwith oil, insuring her rose petals' delicate temper..

CHAPTER 107

First hearing the sound, then rapidly advancing upon the totallystartling sight of her treasured housemaid Irene huddled downand heavily sobbing behind where the lower staircase curvedinto an arc. Missis Emily Holt instantly reacted in alarm. "Whatis it, Irene?" Missis Emily bent, grasping and shaking theheaving shoulders. "Get yourself up from there this minute andtell me! What is it?" Irene managed to stumble upright whilegasping to her missis of her love for Torn, whom she said shewished to many, rather than continuing her struggle to resisther regular pursuit by certain young mass as Pressed by asuddenly agitated Missis Holt to reveal their identities, Irenethrough her tears blurted out two names. That evening beforedinner, a shaken Massa and Missis Holt agreed that it wasclearly in the best interests of the immediate family circle to besold to Massa Murray and quickly. Still, because Missis andMassa Holt genuinely liked Irene, and highly approved of herchoice of Torn for a mate, they insisted that Massa and MissisMurray let them host the wedding and reception dinner. Allmembers of both the white and black Holt and Murray familieswould attend in the Holt big-house front yard, with theirminister performing the ceremony and Massa Holt himselfgiving away the bride. But amid the lovely, moving occasion,the outstanding sensation was the delicately hand-wroughtperfect long- stemmed rose of iron that the groom Tornwithdrew from inside his coat pocket and tenderly presentedto his radiant bride. Amid the "oohs" and "ahhs" of the rest ofthe wedding assembly, Irene embraced it with her eyes, thenpressing it to her breast she breathed, "Torn, it's jes' toobeautiful! Ain't gwine never be far from dis rose--or you

neither!" During the lavish reception dinner there in the yardafter the beaming white families had retired to their mealserved within the big house, after Matilda's third glass of thefine wine, she burbled to Irene, "You's mon jes' a prettydaughter! You's done saved me from worryin' if Torn too shyever to ax a gal to git married"--Irene loudly and promptlyresponded, "He didn't!" And the guests within earshot joinedthem in uproarious laughter. After the first week back at theMurray place, Tom's family soon joked among themselves thatever since the wedding, his hammer had seemed to startsinging against his anvil. Certainly no one had ever seen himtalk so much, or smile at so many people as often, or work ashard as he had since Irene came. Her treasured rose of irongraced the mantelpiece in their new cabin, which he left atdawn and went out to kindle his forge, where after the soundsof his tools shaping metals seldom went interrupted until thatdusk's final red-hot object was plunged into the stale water ofhis slake tub to hiss and bubble as it cooled. Customers whocame for some minor repair or merely to get a toolsharpened, he would usually ask if they could wait. Someslaves liked to sit on foot-high sections of logs off to one side,though most preferred shifting about in a loose groupexchanging talk of common interest. On the opposite side, thewaiting white customers generally sat on the split-log benchesthat Torn had set up for them, positioned carefully just withinhis earshot, though far enough away that the whites didn'tsuspect that as Torn worked, he was monitoring theirconversations. Smoking and whittling and now or then takingnips from their pocket flasks as they talked, they had come to

regard Tom's shop as a locally popular meeting place,supplying him now with a daily flow of small talk andsometimes with fresh, important news that he told to his Irene,his mother Matilda, and the rest of his slave-row family aftertheir suppertimes. Torn told his family what deep bitternessthe white men expressed about northern Abolitionists'mounting campaign against slavery. "Dey's sayin' datPres'dent Buchanan better keep 'way from dat no-good buncho' nigger lovers if he 'speck any backin' here in de South." Buthis white customers vented their worst hatred, he said, "'against Massa Abraham Lincoln what been talkin' 'bout freein'us slaves" "Sho' is de truth," said Irene. "Reckon leas' a year Ibeen hearin' how if he don' shut up, gwine git de Nawth an' deSouth in a war!" "Y'all ought to of beared my of' massa rantin'an' cussin'!" exclaimed Lilly Sue. "He say dis Massa Lincolngot sich gangly legs an' arms an' a long, ugly, hairy face can'tnobody hardly tell if he look demos like a ape or gorilla! Sayhe borned an' growed up dirt po' in some log cabin, an'cotched bears an' polecats to git anythin' to eat, twixt splittin'logs into fence rails like a nigger." "Torn, ain't you tol' usMassa Lincoln a lawyer now- days?" asked L'il Kizzy, and Tornaffirmatively grunted and nodded. "Well, I don care what desewhite folks says!" declared Matilda. "Massa Lincoln doin'good fo' us if he git dem so upset. Fact, mo' I hear 'bout 'im,sound' to me he like Moses tryin' to free us chilluns o' Israeli""Well, he sho' can't do it too fas' to suit me," said Irene. Bothshe and Lilly Sue had been bought by Massa Murray toincrease his field workers, as she dutifully did in thebeginning. But not many months had passed when Irene

asked her doting husband if he would build her a hand loom--and she had one in the shortest time that his skilled handscould make it. Then the steady frump frump of her loom couldbe heard from three cabins away as she worked into thenights until well beyond the rest of the slave-row family'sbedtime. Before very long the visibly proud Torn wassomewhat self-consciously wearing a shirt that Irene had cutand sewn from the cloth that she had made herself. "I jes'loves doin' what my mammy teached me," she modestlyresponded to congratulations. She next carded, spun, wove,and sewed matching ruffled dresses for an ecstatic Lilly Sueand L'il Kizzy--who now approaching the age of twenty wasdemonstrating absolutely no interest in settling down, seemingto prefer only successive flirtatious courtships, her newestswam, Amos, being a general worker at the North CarolinaRailroad Company's newly completed hotel, ten miles distantat Company Shops. Irene then made shirts for each of herbrothers-in-law--which genuinely moved them, even Ashford--and finally matching aprons, smocks, and bonnets for Matildaand herself. Nor were Missis and next Massa any less openlydelighted with the amazingly finely stitched dress and shirt shemade for them, from cotton grown right on their ownplantation. "Why, it's just beautiful!" Missis Murray exclaimed,turning around displaying her dress to a beaming Matilda. "I'llnever figure, out why the Holts sold her to us at all, and even ata reasonable price!" Glibly avoiding the truth that Irene hadconfided, Matilda said, "Bes' I can reckon. Missis, is dey likedTorn so much." Having a great love of colors, Irene avidlycollected plants and leaves that she needed for cloth dyeing,

and the weekends of 1859's early autumn saw cloth swatchesin red, green, purple, blue, brown, and her favorite yellowhanging out to dry on the rattan clotheslines. Without anyone'sformally deciding or even seeming to much notice it, Irenegradually withdrew from doing further field work. From themassa and missis on down to Virgil's and Lilly Sue's peculiar-acting four-year-old Uriah, everyone was far more aware ofthe increasing ways in which Irene was contributing a newbrightness to all of their lives. "Reckon good part of whatmade me want Torn so much was 'cause I seed we both jes'loves makin' things fo' folks," she told Matilda, who wasrocking comfortably in her chair before her dully glowingfireplace one chilly late October evening. After a pause, Irenelooked at her mother-in-law in a sly, under-eyed manner."Knowin' Torn," she said, "ain't no need me axin' if he done tol'you we's makin sump'n else" It took a second to register.Shrieking happily, springing up and tightly embracing Irene,Matilda was beside herself with joy. "Make a 1'il gal firs',honey, so I can hug an' rocker jes' like a doll!" Irene did anincredible range of things across the winter months as herpregnancy advanced. Her hands seemed all but able to wreaka magic that soon was being enjoyed within the big house aswell as in every slave-row cabin. She plaited rugs of clothscraps; she made both tinted and scented Christmas-NewYear holiday season candles; she carved dried cows' hornsinto pretty combs, and gourds into water dippers and birds'nests in fancy designs. She insisted until Matilda let her takeover the weekly chore of boiling, washing, and ironingeveryone's clothes. She put some of her fragrant dried-rose

leaves or sweet basil between the folded garments, makingthe black and white Murrays alike smell about as fine as theyfelt. That February Irene got urged into a three-way conspiracyby Matilda, who had already enlisted an amused Ashford'sassistance. After explaining her plan, Matilda fiercelycautioned, "Don't'cha breathe nary word to Torn, you knowhow stiff an' proper he is!" Privately seeing no harm incarrying out her instructions, Irene used her first chance todraw aside her openly adoring sister-in-law L'il Kizzy, andspeak solemnly: "I'se done beared sump'n I kinda 'speckyou'd want to. Dat Ashford whispin' it roun' dat look like somereal pretty gal beatin' yo' time wid dat railroad hotel manAmos"--Irene hesitated just enough to confirm L'il Kizzy'sjealously narrowing eyes, then continued, "Ashford say de galright on de same plantation wid one o' his'n. He claim Amosgo see her some weeknights, twixt seem' you Sundays. Degal say 'fo' long she gwine have Amos jumpin' de broom fo'sho'"--L'il Kizzy gulped the bait like a hungry blue catfish, areport that was immensely gratifying to Matilda, who hadconcluded that after her covert observations of her fickledaughter's previous swains, Amos seemed the most solid,sincere prospect fer L'il Kizzy to quit flirting and settle downwith. Irene saw even her stoic Torn raise his brows during thefollowing Sunday afternoon after Amos arrived on hisborrowed mule for his usual faithful visit. None of the familyever had seen L'il Kizzy in such a display of effervescinggaiety, wit, and discreetly suggestive wiles as she practicallyshowered on the practically tongue-tied Amos, with whom shehad previously acted more or less bored. After a few more of

such Sundays, L'il Kizzy confessed to her heroine Irene thatshe finally had fallen in love, which Irene promptly told thedeeply pleased Matilda. But then when more Sundays hadpassed without any mention of jumping the broom, Matildaconfided to Irene, "I'se worried. Knows ain't gwine be long 'fo'dey does sump'n. You see how ever' time he come here, deygoes walkin', right 'way from all us, an dey heads close to-gedder" Matilda paused. "Irene, I'se worried 'bout two things.Firs' thing, dey fool roun' an' git too close, de gal liable to winup in a fam'ly way. Other thing, dat boy so used to railroads an'folks travelin', I wonders is dey maybe figgerin' to run off to upNawth? "Cause L'il Kizzy jes' wil' 'enough to try anythin', an'you know it!" Upon Amos' arrival the next Sunday, Matildapromptly appeared bearing a frosted layer cake and a largejug of lemonade. In loud, pointed invitation, she exclaimed toAmos that if she couldn't cook as well as L'il Kizzy, perhapsAmos would be willing to suffer through a bit of the cake andconversation. "Fac', us don't never hardly even git to see youno mo', seem like!" An audible groan from L'il Kizzy wasinstantly squelched with her catching a hard glance from Torn,as Amos, without much acceptable alternative, took an offeredseat. Then as the family small talk accompanied therefreshments, Amos contributed a few strained, self-conscious syllables. After a while, apparently L'il Kizzydecided that her man was much more interesting than herfamily was being enabled to appreciate. "Amos, how comeyou don' tell 'em 'bout dem tall poles an' wires dem railroadwhite folks ain't long put up?" Her tone was less a requestthan a demand.

Fidgeting some, then Amos said,

"Well, ain't rightly know if'n I can 'zackly 'scribe whatever it is.But jes' las' month dey got through wid stringin' wires 'crost detops o' real tall poles stretchin' fur as you can see"--"Well,what de poles an' wires fo'?" Matilda demanded. "He git tingto dat. Mammy!" Amos looked embarrassed. "Telegraph.Bleeve dat's what dey calls it, ma'am. I been an' looked at howde wires leads inside de railroad station where de stationagent got on his desk dis contraption wid a funny kin' o'sideways handle. Sometime he makin' it click wid his finger.But mo' times de contraption git to clickin' by itself. It mighty'citin' to de white folks. Now every mornin' a good-size bunch'em comes an ties up dey bosses to jes' be roun' waitin' fo'dat thing to git to clickin'. Dey says it's news from differentplaces comin' over dem wires 'way up on dem poles. ""Amos, wait a minute, now"--Torn spoke slowly. "You's sayin' itbringin' news but ain't no talkin', jes' de clickin'?" "Yassuh, Mr.Torn, like a great big cricket. Seem like to me somehow or nother de station agent he's git ting words out'n dat, 'til it stop.Den pretty soon he step outside an' tell dem odder menswhat-all was said." "Ain't dese white folks sump'n?" exclaimedMatilda. "De Lawd do tell!" She beamed upon Amos almostas broadly as L'il Kizzy was. Amos, obviously feeling muchmore at ease than before, elected now without any promptingto tell them of another wonder. "Mr. Torn, is you ever been inany dem railroad repair shops?" Torn was privately decidingthat he liked this young man who appeared to be, at last, hissister's choice to jump the broom with; he had manners. He

seemed sincere, solid. "Naw, son, I ain't," Torn said. "Me an'my wife used to drive by de Company Shops village, but I ain'tnever been inside none de buildin's." "Well suh, I'se tookplenty meals on trays from de hotel to de mens in all twelvedem different shops, an' I reckon de busies' one deblacksmith shop. Dey he's doin' sich in dere as straightenin'dem great big train axles what's got bent, fixin' all manners o'other train troubles, an' makin all kinds o' parts dat keeps detrains runnin'. It's cranes in dere big as logs, bolted to deceilin', an I reckon twelve, fifteen blacksmith's each got anigger helper swingin' mauls an' sledges bigger'n I ever seen.Dey got forges big enough to roas' two, three whole cows in,an one dem nigger helpers tol' me dey anvils weighs much aseight hundred pounds!" "Whewl" whistled Torn, obviouslymuch impressed. "How much yo' anvil weigh, Torn?" Ireneasked. "Right roun' two, hundred pounds, an' ain't ever' bodycould Uf' it." "Amos"--L'il Kizzy exclaimed, "you ain't tol' 'emnothin' 'bout yo' new hotel where you works!" "Hoi' on, none o'my hotel!" Amos widely grinned. "Sho' wisht it was! Dey takesin money ban' over fis'l Lawd! Well, 'magines y'all knows dehotel ain't long built. Folks says some mens pretty hot underde collar 'cause de railroad pres' dent talked wid dem, butden picked Miss Nancy Hillard to manage it. She de one hiredme, 'memberin' me workin' hard fo' her fam'ly, growin' up.Anyhow, de hotel got thirty rooms, wid six toilets out in debackyard. Folks pays a dollar a day fo' room an washbowl an'towel, 'long wid breakfas', dinner, supper, an' a settin' chair onde front porch. Sometime I hears Miss Nancy Jes' acarryin' on'bout how mos' de railroad work mens leaves her nice clean

white sheets all grease an' soot-streaked, but den she saywell leas' dey spends ever' thing dey makes, so dey's he' pingde Company Shops village git better off! " Again L'il Kizzycued her Amos: "How 'bout y'all feedin' dem trainloads o'folks?" Amos smiled. "Well, den's 'bout busy as us ever gits!See, every day it He's de two passenger trains, one runnin'eas', de odder wes'. Gittin' to McLeansville or Hillsboro,'pending which way it gwine, de tram's conductor hetelegraphs 'head to de hotel how many passengers an' crewhe got. An' by time dat train git to our station, lemme tell y'all,Miss Nancy's got all de stuff out on dem long tables hot an'steamin', an' all us helpers jes' rarin' to go to feed dem folks! Imeans it He's quail an' hams, chickens, guineas, rabbit, beef;it's all kinds o' salads, an' bout any vegetable you can name,'long wid a whole table nothin' but desserts! De peoples pilesoff dat big of' train dat sets dere waitin' twenty minutes to give'em time to eat 'fo' dey gits back on boa'd an' it commenceachuffin' out an' gone again! "- " De drummers, Amos! " criedL'il Kizzy, with everyone smiling at her pride. "Yeah," saidAmos. "Dey's de ones Miss Nancy purely love to have put upin de hotel! Sometime two, three 'em git off'n de same train,an' me an' not her nigger hurries up carryin' 'head o' 'em to dehotel dey suit bag an big heavy black web-strap cases whatwe knows is full o' samples whatever dat 'ticular drummer'ssellin'. Miss Nancy says dey's real genT mens keepsdeyselves clean as pins, an' really 'predates being' took goodcare of, an' I likes 'em, too. Some jes' quick to give you a dimeas a nickel fo' carryin' dey bags, shinin dey shoes, or doin'nigh 'bout anythin'! Gin'ly dey washes up an' walks roun' town

talkin' wid folks. After eatin dinner, dey'll set on de porch,smoking or chawin' 'baccy an' jes' lookin', or talkin' tildey goeson upstairs to bed. Den nex' mornin' after breakfas', dey callsone us niggers to tote dey samples cases over crost to datblacksmith's what fo' a dollar a day rents 'em a boss an'buggy, an' off dey drives to sell stuff at I reckon 'bout all destores 'long de roads in dis county"--In a spontaneity of sheeradmiration that Amos worked amid such wonders, the chubbyL'il George exclaimed, " Amos, boy, I ain't realized you isleadin' some life! " "Miss Nancy say de railroad bigges' thingsince de hoss," Amos modestly observed. "She say soon'ssome mo' railroads gits dey tracks jined togedder, things ain'tgwine never be de same no mo'."

CHAPTER 108

Chicken George slowed his galloping, lathered horse barelyenough for its sharp turning off the main road into the lane,then abruptly his hands jerked the reins taut. It was the rightplace, but since he had seen it last: unbelievable! Beyond theweed-choked lane ahead, the once buff- colored Lea homelooked a mottled gray of peeling old paint; rags were stuffedwhere some window panes had been; one side of the nowheavily patched roof seemed almost sagging. Even theadjacent fields were barren, containing nothing but old driedweathered stalks within the collapsing split-log fences.Shocked, bewildered, he relaxed the reins to continue with thehorse now picking its way through the weeds. Yet closer, hesaw the big-house porch aslant, the broken-down front steps;

and the slave-row cabins' roofs were all caving in. Not a cat,dog, or chicken was to be seen as he slid off the horse,leading it now by its bridle alongside the house to thebackyard. He was no more prepared for the sight of the heavyold woman sitting bent over on a piece of log, picking pokesalad greens, dropping the stems about her feet and theleaves into a cracked, rusting washbasin. He recognized thatshe had to be Miss Malizy, but so incredibly different itseemed impossible. His unnecessary loud "Whoa!" caughther attention. Miss Malizy quit picking the greens. Raising herhead, looking about, then she saw him, but he could tell shedidn't yet realize who he was. "Miss Malizy!" He ran overcloser, halting uncertainly as he saw her face still querying.Her eyes squinting, she got him into better focus.. suddenlypushing one hand heavily down against the log, she helpedherself upward. "George... ain't'cha dat boy George?" "Yes'm,Miss Malizy!" He rushed to her now, grasping and embracingher large flabbiness within his arms, close to crying. "Lawd,boy, where you been at? Used to be you was roun' here all detime!" Her tone and words held some vacant ness as if shewere unaware of nearly five years' time lapse. "Been crost dewater in dat Englan', Miss Malizy. Been fightin' chickens overdere--Miss Malizy, where my wife an' mammy an' chilluns at?"So was her face blankness, as if beyond any more emotionno matter whatever else might happen. "Ain't nobody hardlyhere no mo', boy!" She sounded surprised that he didn't knowit. "Dey's all gone. Jes' me an' massa's lef"--"Gone where.Miss Malizy?" He knew that her mind had weakened. With apuffy hand she gestured toward the small willow grove still

below the slave row. "Yo' mammy... Kizzy her name... layin'down yonder"--A whooping sob rose and burst from ChickenGeorge's throat. His hand flew up to muffle it. "Sarah, too, shedown dere... an' of' missy... in de front yard--ain't you seederwhen you rid by?" "Miss Malizy, where Tilda an' my chilluns?"He didn't want to rattle her. She had to think a moment. "Tilda? Yeh. Tilda good gal, sho' was. Whole lotta chilluns, too.Yeh. Boy, you oughta knowed massa sol' off all 'em long timeago" " Where. Miss Malizy, where to? " Rage flooded him. "Where massa. Miss Malizy? " Her head turned toward thehouse. "Up in dere still 'sleep, I reckons. Git so drunk don' gitup 'til late, hollerin' he want to eat... ain't no vittles, hardly... boy,you bring anything to cook?" His "No'm" floating back to theconfused old lady, Chicken George burst through theshambles of the kitchen and down the peeling hallway into thesmelly, messy living room to stop at the foot of the shortstaircase, bellowing angrily "Massa Leaf" He waited briefly."MASSA LEA!" About tv go stomping up the stairs, he heardactivity sounds. After a moment, from the right doorway thedisheveled figure emerged, peering downward. ChickenGeorge through his anger stood shocked to muteness at theshell of his remembered massa, gaunt, unshaven, unkempt;obviously he had slept in those clothes. "Massa Lea?""George!" The old man's body physically jerked. "George!"He came stumbling down the creaking staircase, stopping atits foot; they stood staring at each other. In Massa Lea'shollowed face, his eyes were rheumy, then with high, cacklinglaughter he rushed with widening arms to hug ChickenGeorge, who sidestepped. Catching Massa Lea's bony

hands, he shook them vigorously. "George, so glad you'reback! Where all you been? You due back here long time ago!""Yassuh, yassuh. Lawd Russell jes' lemme loose. An' I beeneight days git ting here from de ship in Richmon'." "Boy, comeon in here in the kitchen!" Massa Lea was tugging ChickenGeorge's wrists. And when they reached there, he scrapedback the broken table's two chairs. "Set, boy! "LIZY! Wheremy jug? "LIZY'" "Comin', Massa"--the old woman's voicecame from outside. "She's done got addled since you left,don't know yesterday from tomorrow," said Massa Lea."Massa, where my fam'ly?" "Boy, less us have a drink 'fore wetalk! Long as we been together, we ain't never had a drinktogether! So glad you back here, finally somebody to talk to!""Ain't fo' talkin', Massa! Where my fam'ly" " LIZY! " "Yassuh"--Her bulk moved through the door frame and she found and puta jug and glasses on the table and then went back outside asif unaware of Chicken George and Massa Lea there talking."Yeah, boy, I sure am sorry 'bout your mammy. She just got tooold, didn't suffer much, and she went quick. Put 'er in a goodgrave" Massa Lea was pouring them drinks. On purpose ain'tmentionin' "Tilda an' de chilluns, it flashed through ChickenGeorge's mind. Ain't changed none... still tricky an' dangerousas a snake... got to keep from ffittin' 'im real mad... " Memberde las' things you said to me, Massa? Said you be settin' mefree jes' soon's I git back. Well, here I is! " But Massa Leagave no sign he'd even heard as he shoved a glass threequarters filled across the table. Then, lifting his own, "Hereyare, boy. Le's drink to you being' back"--/ needs dis...quaffing of the liquor. Chicken George felt it searing down and

warming within him. He tried again, obliquely. "Sho's sorry tohear from Miss Malizy you los' missis, Massa." Finishing hisliquor, grunting, Massa Lea said, "She just didn't wake up onemornin'. Hated to see her go. She never give me any peacesince that cockfight. But I hated to see her go. Hate to seeanybody go." He belched. "We all got to go"--He ain't bad offas Miss Malizy, but he 'long de way. He went now directly tothe point. "My Tilda an' young'uns, Massa, Miss Malizy say yousol' 'em"--Massa Lea glanced at him. "Yeah, had to, boy. Hadto! Bad luck got me down so bad. Had to sell off near 'bout thelast of my land, everything, hell, even the chickens!" About toflare. Chicken George got cut off. "Boy, I'm so poor now, mean' Malizy's eatin' 'bout what we can pick an' catch!" Suddenlyhe cackled. "Hell, sure ain't nothin' new! I was homed po'! " Hegot serious again. " But now you're back, you and me can getthis place agoin' again, you hear me? I know we can doer,boy! " All that repressed Chicken George from lunging up atMassa Lea was -his lifelong conditioning knowledge of whatwould automatically follow physically attacking any white man.But his rasping anger contained his closeness to it. "Massa,you sent me 'way from here wid yo' word to free me! But I gitback, you done even sol' my fam'ly. I wants my papers an'know where my wife and chilluns is, Massa!" "Thought I toldyou that! They over in Alamance County, tobacco plantername Murray, live not far from the railroad shops"--MassaLea's eyes were narrowed. "Don't you raise your voice at me,boy!" Alamance... Murray... railroad shops. Inking into memorythose key words. Chicken George now managed a seemingcontriteness, "I'se sorry, jes' get excited, sho' ain't meant to,

Massa"--The massa's expression wavered, then forgave. / gotto ease out'n 'im dat piece o' paper he writ dat free me. "Ibeen down, boy!" Hunching forward across the table, themassa squinted fiercely, "You hear me? Nobody never knowhow down I been! Ain't jes' meanin' money"--He gestured athis chest, "Down in here!" He seemed wanting a response--"Yassuh." "Seen hard days, boy! Them sonsabitches used toholler my name crossin' the street when I'm comin'. Heared'em laughin' Tiin' my back. Sonsabitches!" A bony fist bangedthe tabletop. "Swore in my heart Torn Lea show 'em! Now youback. Git not her set of chickens] Don't care I'm eighty-three...we can doer, boy!" "Massa"--Massa Lea squinted closely,"Forgot how old you now, boy?" "Fifty-fo' now, Massa." "Youain't!" "Is, too, Massa. To' long, be fifty-five"--"Hell, I seen youthe same mornin' you birthed! L'il of' wrinkled-up straw-colored nigger" Massa Lea cackled. "Hell, I give you yourname!" Pouring himself another smaller drink after ChickenGeorge had waved his hand negatively, quickly Massa Leapeered around as if to insure that only they were there."Reckon ain't no sense keepin' you 'mongst all them I gotfooled! They think I ain't got nothin' no more"--He gaveChicken George a conspiratorial look. "I got money! Ain'tmuch. I got it hid! Don't nobody but me know where! " Helooked longer at Chicken George. "Boy, when I go, you knowwho git what I got? Still ownin' ten acres, too! Lan' like moneyat the bank! Whatever I got go to you! You the closest I gotnow, boy." He seemed to be wrestling with -something.Furtively he leaned yet closer. "Hell, ain't no need not to facethe fact. It's blood 'tween us, boy!" He done hit bottom fo' sho',

sayin' dat. His insides contracting, Chicken George satmutely. "Jes' stay on even if a 1'il while, George"--Thewhiskied face petitioned. "I know you ain't the kin' go turnin'your back 'against them what helped you in this worl'"--Jes 'fo'1 lef he showed me my freedom paper he'd writ an' signed an'said he gwine keep in 'is strongbox. Chicken George realizedthat he was going to have to get Massa Lea yet drunker. Hestudied the face across the table, thinking being white de onlything he got lef. "Massa, never will fo'git how you bring me up--mighty few white men's good as dat"--The watery eyeslighted. "You was jes' 1'il shirttail nigger. I shore remember"--"Yassuh, you an' Uncle- Mingo"--"Or Mingo! Damn his time!Bes' nigger trainer it was"--The wavering eyes found a focuson Chicken George "... 'til you learnt good.started takin' you tofights an' leavin' Mingo"--".. hope you an' massa trus' me tofeed d'e chickens"--The memory of old Uncle Mingo'sbitterness hurt even yet. " Member, Massa, we was gwine to abig fight in New Orleans? " "Shore was! An' never did makeit"--His brow wrinkled. "Uncle Mingo died jes' befo' was howcome." "Yeah! 01' Mingo over under them willow trees now."Along with my mammy and Sister Sarah, and Miss Malizywhenever she go, 'pending which one y'all goes first. Hewondered what either would do without the other. "Boy, you'member me givin' you the travelin' pass to go catch all the tailyou wanted?" Making himself simulate guffawing laughter.Chicken George pounded the tabletop himself, the massacontinuing, "Damn right I did, 'cause you was horny buck if Iever seen one. An' we both catched aplenty tail them trips wemade, boy! I knowed you was an' you knowed I was" "Yassuh!

Sho' did, Massa!" "An' you commence hack fighting an' I giveyou money to bet, an' you win your ass off!" "Sho' did, suh, detruth! De truth!" "Boy, we was a team, we was!" ChickenGeorge caught himself almost starting to share a thrilling inthe reminiscings; he also felt a little giddy from the whiskey.He reminded himself of his objective. Reaching across thetable, taking up the liquor jug, he poured into his glass aboutan inch, closing a fist quickly around the glass to mask thesmall amount as extending the bottle across the table, hepoured for Massa Lea about three quarters of a glassful.Raising his glass within his fist, appearing to lurch, his voicesounded slurring, "Drink to good a massa as is anywhere!Like dem Englishmans says, " Down de hawtch! " " Sipping ofhis, he watched Massa Lea quaff, "Boy, it do me good youfeel that away"--" " Mother toas'! " The two glasses elevated."Fines' nigger I ever had!" They drained their glasses. Wipinghis mouth with the back of a veiny hand, coughing from thewhiskey's impact, Massa Lea also slurred, "You ain't tol' menothin' 'bout that Englishman, boy--what's his name?" "LawdRussell, Massa. He got mo money'n he can count. Got mon fo'hunnud bloodline roosters to pick from to fight wid"--Then aftera purposeful pause, "But ain't nowhere de game cocker youis, Massa." "You mean that, boy?" "Ain't as smart, one thing.An' ain't de man you is! He jes' rich an' lucky. Ain't yo' quality o'white folks, Massa!" Chicken George thought of havingoverheard Sir C. Eric Russell say to friends, "George'smawster's a glorified hack- fighter." Massa Lea's head lolled,he jerked it back upward, his eyes trying to focus on ChickenGeorge. Where would he keep his strongbox? Chicken

George thought how the rest of his life's condition would hangupon his obtaining the vividly remembered square sheet ofpaper containing maybe three times more writing than atraveling pass, over the signature. "Massa, could I have 1'ilmo' yo' liquor?" "You know bet tern ask, boy. . all you wan"--"Itol' am any dem English folks bes' massa in de wori's what Igot. ain't nobody never hear me talkin' 'bout stayin' over dere. .. hey, yo' glass git ting low, Massa"--". . Jes li'l be 'enough. . .naw, you ain't that kin', boy. . . never give no real trouble"--"Nawsuh... well, drinkin' to you 'gin, suh"--They did, some of themassa's liquor wetting his chin. Chicken George, feeling moreof the whiskey's effect, suddenly sat up straighter, seeing themassa's head lowering toward the tabletop... "Y'always goodto y'other niggers, too, Massa..." The head wavered, stayeddown. "Tried to, boy... tried to"--It was muffled. B'leeve hegood'n drunk now. "Yessuh, you'n missis bofe"--"Goodwoman... lotta ways"--The massa's chest now also met thetable. Lifting his chair with minimal sound. Chicken Georgewaited a suspenseful moment. Moving to the entrance, hehalted, then not over loudly "Massa!... Massa!" Suddenlyturning, catlike, within seconds he was searching everydrawer within any front-room furniture. Halting, hearing only hisbreathing, he hastened up the steps, cursing their creaking.The impact of entering a white man's bedroom hit him. Hestopped.. involuntarily stepping backward, he glimpsed theconglomerate mess. Sobering rapidly, he went back inside,assaulted by the mingled strong odors of stale whiskey, urine,sweat, and unwashed clothes among the emptied bottles.Then as if possessed, he was pulling open, flinging aside

things, searching futilely. Maybe under the bed. Franticallydropping onto his knees, peering, he saw the strongbox.Seizing it, in a trice he was back downstairs, tripping in thehallway. Seeing the massa still slumped over on the table,turning, he hastened through the front door. Around at the sideof the house, with his hands he wrestled to open the locked,metal box. Git on de hoss an' go--bus1 it open later. But hehad to be sure he had the freedom paper. The backyard woodchopping block caught his eyes, with the old ax near it on theground. Nearly leaping there, jerking up the ax, setting the boxlock side up, with one smashing blow it burst open. Bills,coins, folded papers spilled out, and snatching open papershe instantly recognized it. "What'cha doin', boy?" He nearlyjumped from his skin. But it was Miss Malizy sitting on her log,unperturbed, quietly staring. "What massa say?" she askedvacantly. "I got to go. Miss Malizy!" "Well, reckon you better go'head, den"--"Gwine tell Tilda an 'de chilluns you wishes 'emwell" "That be nice, boy... y'all take care"--"Yes'm"--swiftlymoving, he embraced her tightly. Oughta run see de graves.Then thinking it better to remember his mammy Kizzy andSister Sarah as he remembered them living. Chicken Georgeswept a last look over the crumbling place where he was bornand raised; unexpectedly blubbering, clutching the freedompaper, he went running, and vaulting onto his horse ahead ofthe two double saddle rolls containing his belongings, he wentgalloping back up through the high weeds of the lane, notlooking back.

CHAPTER 109

Near the fence row that flanked the main road, Irene wasbusily picking leaves to press into dry perfumes when shelooked up, hearing the sound of a galloping horse's hoofs.She gasped, seeing the horseman wearing a flowing greenscarf and a black derby with a curving rooster tail featherjutting up from the hatband. Waving her arms wildly, she racedtoward the road, crying out at the top of her lungs, "ChickenGeorge! Chicken George!" The rider reined up just beyondthe fence, his lathered horse heaving with relief. "Do I knowyou, gal?" he called, returning her smile. "Nawsuh! We aintnever seen one not her but Torn, Mammy, "Tilda, an' de fam'lytalk 'bout you so much I knows what you-look like." He staredat her. "My Torn and Tilda?" "Yassuh! Yo' wife an' my husban'--my baby's daddy!" It took him a few seconds to register it."You an' Torn got a chile?" She nodded, beaming and pattingher protruding stomach. "It due not her month!" He shook hishead. "Lav." d God! Lawd God Amighty! What's yo' name? ""Irene, sun!" Telling him to ride on, she hurried clumsily as fastas she dared until she reached within vocal range of whereVirgil, Ashford, L'il George, James, Lewis, L'il Kizzy, and LillySue were planting in another section of the plantation. Herloud hallooing quickly brought a worried L'il Kizzy, who racedback to relay the incredible news. They all breathlesslyreached the slave row, shouting and surging about their father,mother, and Torn, and all trying at once to embrace him, until apummeled and disarrayed Chicken George was entirelyoverwhelmed with his reception. "Guess bes' y'all hears debad news firs'," he told them, and then of the deaths ofGran'mammy Kizzy and Sister Sarah. "01' Missis Lea, she

gone, too"--When their grief at their losses had abatedsomewhat, he described Miss Malizy's condition, and then hisexperience with Massa Lea, finally resulting in the freedom-paper that he triumphantly displayed. Supper was eaten andthe night fell upon the family grouped raptly about him as heentered the topic of his nearly five years in England. "Gwinetell y'all de truth, reckon I'd need not her year tryin' tell all I'seseed an' done over 'way 'crost all dat water! My Lawd!" But hegave them now at least a few highlights of Sir C. Eric Russell'sgreat wealth and social prestige; of his long purebred lineageand consistently winning game flock and how as an expertblack trainer from America he had proved fascinating to loversof gamecocking in England, where fine ladies would gostrolling leading their small African boys dressed in silks andvelvet by golden chains about their necks. "Ain't gwine lie, I'seglad I had all de 'speriences I is. But Lawd knows I'se missedy'all sump'n terrible!" "Sho' don' look it to me--stretchin' twoyears out to mon fo'!" Matilda snapped. "Or biddy ain'tchanged a bit, is she?" observed Chicken George to hisamused children. "Hmphf Who so of'?" Matilda shot back. "Yo'head done got to showin' mo' gray clan mine is!" Helaughingly patted Matilda's shoulders as she feigned greatindignance. T'wa'nt me ain't wanted to git back! I commence'mindin' Lawd Russell soon's dem two years done. But oneday after a while he come an' say I'se trainin' his chickens sogood, well as de young white feller was my helper dat he done'cided sen' nudder sum o' money to Massa Lea, tellin' 'im heneed me one mo' year--an' I nearly had a fit! But what I'mgwine do? Done debes I could--I got in 'is letter fo' Massa Lea

be sho' an' 'splain to y'all what happen"--" He ain't tol' us naryword! " exclaimed Matilda, and Torn spoke. "You know why?He'd done sol' us off by dat time." "Sho' right! It's why us ain'tbeared!" "Umh-huh! Umh-huh! See? T'warn't me!" ChickenGeorge sounded pleased to be vindicated. After his bitterdisappointment, he said he had extracted Sir Russell's pledgethat it would be the last year. "Den I went 'head an' he'ped hischickens win dey bigges' season ever--leas' dat's what he tol'me. Den fin'ly he said he feel like I done teached de youngwhite feller 'enough dat he could take over, an' I jes' 'bout lit updat place carryin' on, I was so happy! "Lemme tell y'all sump'n--it's a mighty few niggers ever has two whole carriage loads ofEnglish folks 'companyin' 'em like dey did me, toSouthampton. Dat's great big city by de water wid ain't notellin' how many ships gwine in an' out. Lawd Russell had'ranged for me ridin' steerage in dis ship crost de ocean."Lawd! De scar des I ever been! We ain't got all dat far outdere 'fo' commence to buckin' an' rearin' like a wil' boss! Talk'bout prayin'!"--he ignored Matilda's "Hmph!--seem like dewhole ocean gone crazy, tryin' to wrench us to pieces! But denfin'ly it got ca'med down pretty fair an' it was even restful bytime we come in New York where ever' body got off"--"NewYawk!" L'il Kizzy exclaimed. "What'cha do dere, Pappy?""Gal, ain't I tellin' it fas' as I can? Well, Lawd Russell had giveone de ship officers money wid 'instructions to put me onnudder ship dat'd git me to Richmon'. But de ship de officermade 'rangements wid weren't leavin' fo' five, six days. So Ijes' walked up an' down in dat New Yawk, lissenin' an' lookin'"--"Where you to stay?" asked Matilda. "Roomin' house for

colored--dat's same as niggers, where you think? I hadmoney. I got money, out in my saddlebags right now. Gwineshow it to y'all in de mawnin'." He glanced devilishly atMatilda. "Might even give you hundred dollars, y'act right!" Asshe snorted, he went on, "Dat Lawd Russell tumt out to be areal good man. Gimme dis pretty fair piece o' money jes' 'fo' Ilet. Say it strictly fo' me, not even to mention it to Massa Lea,an' you knows fo' sho' I ain't. "Really main thing I done wastalked wid plenty dem New Yawk free niggers. Seem like tomemos 'em tryin' to keep from starvin', worse off'n we is. But itis like we's beared. Some of 'em is livin' good! Got differentkinds dey own businesses, or nice-payin' jobs. Few owns deyown homes, an' more pays rents in sump'n dey calls'partments, an' some de young'uns git ting some school in',sich as dat. "But whatever nigger I talked to mad as yellowjackets 'bout is all dem 'migratin' white folks ever' where youlooks"--"Dem Abolitions?" yelped L'il Kizzy. "You tellin' it orme? Naw! Sho' ain't! Way I unnerstan', de Abolitions is pret'much white folks what been in dis country teas' long asniggers is. But dese I'se speakin' 'bout is pilin' off'n ships intoNew Yawk, in fact all over de Nawth. Dey's Irishers, mainly, youcan't unnerstan' what dey's sayin', an' lotta odder 'culiar kindscan't even speak English. Fact, I beared dey steps off deships an firs' word dey learns is 'nagur," den next thing dey'sclaimin' niggers takin' dey jobs' Dey's startin' fights an' riots allde time--dey's wusser'n po' crackers! " "Well, Lawd, I hopedey stays 'way from down here!" said Irene. "Look here, y'all,it'd take me not her week to tell half de going's on I seed an'beared 'fo' dat ship bring me to Richmon'"--"S'prise to me you

even got on it!" "Woman, ain't you gon' never let me 'lone!Man gone fo' years an' you actin' like I lef yestiddy!" Theslightest suggestion of an edge was in Chicken George'svoice.

Torn asked quickly,

"You bought yo' hoss in Richmon'?" "Dat's right! Sebentydollars! She a real fas' speckle mare. I figgered free mangwine need a good hoss. I rider hard as she could stan' it toMassa Lea's"--It being early April, everyone else wasextremely busy. Most of the family were in the plantingseason's height. Among cleaning, cooking, and serving in thebig house, Matilda had very little available free time. Tom'scustomers kept him going at his hardest from daylight intodeepening dusk, and the nearly eight months' pregnant Irenewas scarcely less occupied among her diverse tasks. Nomatter, across the next week. Chicken George visited withthem all. But out in the fields, it soon was as uncomfortablyclear to them as to himself that he and anything connectedwith field work were alien. Matilda and Irene's faces madequick smiles when he came near, then they made equallyquick apologies that they knew be understood that they had toget back to what they were doing. Several times, he droppedby to have some chat with Torn while he blacksmithed. Buteach time the atmosphere would grow tense. The slaves whowere waiting grew visibly nervous on seeing whatever as yetunattended white customers abruptly quit their conversations,spit emphatically and shift their bodies on the log benches,

while eyeing the wearer of the green scarf and the black derbywith obvious silent suspicion. Twice during these times, Tornhappened to glance and see Massa Murray starting downtoward the shop, then turn back, and Torn knew why. Matildahad said that when the Murrays first learned of ChickenGeorge's arrival, "dey seem happy fo' us, but Torn, I worries, Iknows dey's since had dey heads togedder whole lot, denquits talkin' soon's I come in." What was going to be ChickenGeorge's "free" status there on the Murray plantation? Whatwas he going to do? The questions hung like a cloud in theminds of every individual among them.. excepting Virgil's andLilly Sue's four-year-old Uriah. "You's my gran'pappy?" Uriahseized his chance to say something directly to the intriguingman who had seemed to occasion such a stir among all of theother adults ever since his arrival several days before. "What?" The startled Chicken George had just wandered back intothe slave row, deeply rankled by his feeling of being rejected.He eyed the child who stared at him with large, curious eyes."Well, reckon I is." About to walk on, George turned. "Whatdey say yo' name?" "Uriah, suh. Gran'pappy, where bouts youwork at?" "What you talkin' " bout? " He glared down at theboy. " Who tol' you to ax me dat? " "Nobody. Jes' aK you." Hedecided that the boy told the truth. "Don' work nowheres I'sefree." The boy hesitated. "Gran'pappy, what free is?" Feelingridiculous standing there being interrogated by a young' unChicken George started on, but then he thought of whatMatilda had confided of the boy- "Seem like he tend to besickly, even maybe a 1'il square in de head.-Next time youroun' 'im, notice how he apt to jes' keep starin' at somebody

even after dey's quit talkin'." Turning about, Chicken Georgesearched the face of Uriah, and he saw what Matilda meant.The boy did project an impression of physical weakness and,except for his blinking, the large eyes were as if they hadfastened onto Chicken George, assessing his every utteranceor movement. George felt uncomfortable. The boy repeatedhis question. "Suh, what free is?" "Free mean ain't nobodyown you no mo'." He had a sense that he was speaking to theeyes. He started off again. "Mammy say you fights chickens.What you fight 'em wid?" Wheeling about, a retort on histongue. Chicken George perceived the earnest, curious faceof only a small boy. And it stirred something within him:granchile. Critically he studied Uriah, thinking that there mustbe something appropriate to say to him. And finally, "Yo'mammy or anybody tol' you where you comes from?" "Sun?Comes from where?" He had not been told, Chicken Georgesaw, or if he had, not in a way that he remembered. "C'mon'long wid me here, boy." Also, it was something for him to do.Followed by Uriah, Chicken George led the way over to thecabin that he was sharing with Matilda. "Now set yo'self downin dat chair an' don't be axin' no whole lotta questions. Jes' setan' lissen to what I tells you." "Yassuh." "Yo' pappy born of mean' yo' Gran'mammy Tilda." He eyed the boy. "You unncrstan'sdat?" "My pappy y'all young' un "Dat's right. You ain't dumasyou looks. Den my mammy name Kizzy. So she yo' great-gran'mammy. Gran'- mammy Kizzy. Say dat." "Yassuh.Gran'mammy Kizzy." "Yeah. Den her mammy name Bell." Helooked at the boy. "Name Bell." Chicken George grunted."Awright. An' Kizzy's pappy name Kunta Kinte"--"Kunta Kinte."

"Dat's right. Well, him an Bell yo' great-greatgran'- folks"--Nearly an hour later, when Matilda came hurrying nervouslyinto the cabin, wondering what on earth had happened toUriah, she found him dutifully repeating such sounds as "KuntaKinte" and "ko" and "Kamby Bolongo." And Matilda decidedthat she had the time to sit down, and beaming withsatisfaction, she listened as Chicken George told their raptgrandson the story of how his Afri- can great-great-gran'daddyhad said he was not far from his village, chopping some woodto make a drum, when he had been surprised, overwhelmed,and stolen into slavery by four men, "--den a ship brung 'im'crost de big water to a place call "Naplis, an' he was boughtdere by a Massa John Waller what took 'im to his plantationdat was in Spotsylvania County, Virginia..." The followingMonday, Chicken George rode with Torn in the mule cart tobuy supplies in the county-seat town of Graham. Little wassaid between them, each seeming mostly immersed in hisown thoughts. As they went from one to another store. ChickenGeorge keenly relished the quiet dignity with which his twenty-seven-year-old son dealt with the various white merchants.Then they went into a feed store that Torn said had recentlybeen bought by a former county sheriff named J. D. Cates.The heavy-set Cates was seeming to ignore them as hemoved about serving his few white customers. Some sense ofwarning rose within Torn; glancing, he saw Cates lookingcovertly at the green-scar fed black-derbied Chicken George,who was stepping about in a cocky manner visually inspectingitems of merchandise. Intuitively Torn was heading toward hisfather to accomplish a quick exit when Cates' voice cut

through the store: "Hey, boy, fetch me a dipper of water fromthat bucket over there!" Cates was gazing directly at Torn, theeyes taunting, menacing. Tom's insides congealed as, underthe threat of a white man's direct order, he walked stony-facedto the bucket and returned with a dipper of water. Cates drankit at a gulp, his small eyes over the dipper's rim now onChicken George, who stood with his head slowly shaking.Cates thrust the dipper toward him. "I'm still thirsty!" Avoidingany quick moves. Chicken George drew from his pocket hiscarefully folded freedom paper and handed it to Cates. Catesunfolded it and read. "What're you doin' in our county?" heasked coldly. "He my pappy," Torn put in quickly. Above all, hedid not want his father attempting any defiant talk. "He jes'been give his freedom." "Livin' with y'all now over at Mr.Murray's place?" "Yassuh." Glancing about at his whitecustomers, Cates exclaimed, "Mr. Murray ought to know thelaws of this state bet tern that!" Uncertain what he meant,neither Torn nor George said anything. Suddenly Cates'manner was almost affable. "Well, when y'all boys get home,be shore to tell Mr. Murray I'll be out to talk with him 'fore long."With the sound of white men's laughter behind them, Torn andChicken George quickly left the store. It was the next afternoonwhen Cates galloped down the driveway of the Murray bighouse. A few minutes later, Torn glanced up from his forge andsaw Irene running toward the shop. Hurrying past his fewwaiting customers, he went to meet her. "Mammy Tilda say letyou know massa an dat white man on de porch steady talkin'.Leas' de man keep talkin' an' massa jes' noddin' an' noddin'.""Awright, honey," said Torn. "Don' be scairt. You git on back

now." Irene fled. Then, after about another half hour, shebrought word that Cates had left, "an' now massa an' missisgot dey heads togedder." But nothing happened until Matildawas serving supper to Massa and Missis Murray, whom shesaw were eating in a strained silence. Finally, when shebrought their dessert and coffee, Massa Murray said, in a tightvoice, "Matilda, tell your husband I want to see him out on theporch right away." "Yassuh, Massa." She found ChickenGeorge with Torn down at the blacksmith shop. ChickenGeorge forced a laugh when he got the message. "Reckon hemight want to see if I git 'im some fightin' roosters!" Adjustinghis scarf and tilting his derby to a jauntier angle, he walkedbriskly toward the big house. Massa Murray was waiting there,seated in a rocker on the porch. Chicken George stopped inthe yard at the foot of the stairs. " Tilda say you wants to seeme" suh. " "Yes, I do, George. I'l come right to the point. Yourfamily has brought Missis Murray and me much happinesshere"--"Yassuh," George put in, "an" dey sho' speaks dehighes' of y'all, too, Massa! " The massa firmed his voice. "ButI'm afraid we're going to have to solve a problem--concerningyou." He paused. "I understand that in Burlington yesterdayyou met Mr. J. D. Cates, our former county sheriff"--"Yassuh,reckon could say I met 'im, Massa." "Well, you probably knowMr. Cates has visited me today. He brought to my attention aNorth Carolina law that forbids any freed black from stayingwithin the state for more than sixty days, or he must be re-enslaved." It took a moment to sink in. Chicken George stareddisbelievingly at Massa Murray. He couldn't speak. "I'm reallysorry, boy. I know it don't seem fair to you." "Do it seem fair to

you, Massa Murray?" The massa hesitated. "No, to tell you thetruth. But the law is the law." He paused. "But if you would wantto choose to stay here, I'll guarantee you'll be treated well. Youhave my word on that." "Yo' word, Massa Murray?" George'seyes were impassive. That night George and Matilda layunder their quilt, hands touching, both staring up at the ceiling." Tilda," he said after a long while, "guess ain't nothin' to dobut stay. Seem like runnin's all I ever done." "Naw, George."She shook her head slowly back and forth. " " Cause you defirs' one us ever free. You got to stay free, so us havesomebody free in dis family. You jes' can't go back to being' aslave! " Chicken George began to cry. And Matilda wasweeping with him. Two evenings later, she was not feeling wellenough to join him in having supper with Torn and Irene in theirsmall cabin. The conversation turned to their child, which wasdue within two weeks, and Chicken George grew solemn. "Besho' y'all tells dat chile 'bout our fam'ly, y'all hear me?" "Pappy,ain't none my chilluns gon' grow up widdout knowin'." Tornstrained a smile. "I reckon if I don't tell 'em, Gran'mammy Kizzycome back to set me straight." There was silence for a whileas the three of them sat staring at the fire. Finally ChickenGeorge spoke again. "Me an' Tilda was countin'. I got fortymore days 'fo' I has to leave, 'cordin' to what de law say. But Ibeen thinkin' ain't no good time to go. Ain't no point keep jes'puttin' off"--He sprang up from his chair, fiercely embracingTorn and Irene. "I be back!" he rasped brokenly. "Take careone not her He bolted through the door.

CHAPTER 110

It was early in November of 1860, and Torn was hurrying tofinish his last blacksmithing task before darkness fell. Hemade it. Then, banking the fire in his forge, he trudged wearilyhome to have supper with Irene, who was nursing their babygirl, Maria, now halfa year old. But they ate wordlessly,because Irene elected not to interrupt his thoughtful silence.And afterward they joined the rest of the family crowded intoMatilda's cabin, cracking and shelling hickory nuts that sheand Irene--who was again pregnant--had been collecting foruse in the special cakes and pies they planned to bake forChristmas and New Year's. Torn sat listening to the lightconversation without comment--or even seeming to hear--andthen, finally, during a lull, he leaned forward in his chair andspoke: "Y'all 'member different times I'se said white menstalkin' 'roun' my shop done been eussin' an' carryin' on 'boutdat Massa Lincoln? Well, wish y'all coulda beared 'em today,'cause he been 'lected Pres'dent. Dey claim now he gon' beup dere in de White House 'against de South an' anybodykeepin slaves." "Well," said Matilda, "I be primed to hearwhatever Massa Murray got to say 'bout it. He sho' beensteady tellin' missis gwine be big trouble less'n de North an'South git dey differences settled, one way or not her "Differentthings I've beared," Torn went on, "whole lots mo' folks clan wethinks is 'against slavin'. Ain't all of 'em up Nawth, neither. Icouldn't hardly keep my min' on what I was doin' today, I beenstudyin' on it so hard. Seem like too much to believe, but itcould come a day won't be no mo' slaves." "Well, we sho'won't live to see it," said Ashford sourly. "But maybe she will,"said Virgil, nodding toward Irene's baby. "Don't seem likely,"

said Irene, "much as I like to b'lieve it. You put together all deslaves in de South, wid even jes' fiel' hands bringin' eight an'nine hunnud dollars apiece, dat's mo' money'n God's got! Plusdat, we does all de work," She looked at Torn. "You knowwhite folks ain't gwine give dat up." "Not widdout a fight," saidAshford. "An' dey's lots more dem clan us. So how we gwinewin?" "But if'n you talkin' 'bout de whole country," said Torn, "itmight be jes' many folks 'against slavery as fo' it." "Trouble isdem what's 'against it ain't here where we is," Virgil said, andAshford nodded, agreeing with someone for a change. "Well,if'n Ashford right 'bout a fight, all dat could change real fast,"said Torn. In early December, soon after Massa and MissisMurray returned home in their buggy from dinner at aneighboring big house one night, Matilda hurried from the bighouse to Torn and Irene's cabin. "What do 'seceded' mean?"she asked, and when they shrugged their shoulders, she wenton. "Well, massa says dat's what South Ca'liny jes' done.Massa sound' like it mean dey's pullin' out'n de NewnitedStates." "How dey gon' pull out de country dey's in?" Tornsaid. "White folks do anythin'," said Irene. Torn hadn't toldthem, but throughout the day, he had been listening to hiswhite customers fuming that they would be "wadin' knee deepin blood" before they'd give in to the North on something theycalled "states' rights." along with the right to own slaves. "I ain'twantin' to scare y'all none," he told Matilda and Irene, "but Ireally b'leeves it gon' be a war." "Oh, my Lawd! Where'bouts itgon' be, Torn?" "Mammy, ain't no special war grounds, likechurch or picnic grounds!" "Well, I sho' hope don't be nowhereroun' here!" Irene scoffed at them both. "Don't y'all ax me to

b'lieve no white folks gwine git to killin' one not her overniggers." But as the days passed, the things Torn overheard athis shop convinced him that he was right. Some of it he toldhis family about, but some not, for he didn't want to alarm themunnecessarily, and he hadn't decided himself whether hedreaded the events he saw coming--or hoped for them. But hecould sense the family's uneasiness increasing anyway, alongwith the traffic on the main road, as white riders and buggiesraced back and forth past the plantation faster and faster andin ever-growing numbers. Almost every day someone wouldturn into the driveway and engage Massa Murray inconversation, Matilda employed every ruse to mop and dustwhere she could listen in. And slowly, over the next few weeks,in the nightly family exchanges, the white people's frightened,angry talk gradually encouraged all of them to dare to believethat if there was a war--and the "Yankees" won--it was justpossible that they might really be set free. An increasingnumber of the blacks who delivered blacksmithing jobs to Torntold him that their mass as and missies were becomingsuspicious and secretive, lowering their voices and evenspelling out words when even their oldest and closest servantsentered a room. "Is dey actin' anyways 'culiar in de big houseroun' you, Mammy?" Torn asked Matilda. "Not no whisperin' orspellin' or sich as dat," she said. "But dey sho' is donecommence to shift off sudden to talking 'bout crops or dinnerparties jes' soon's I come in." "Bes' thing for us all to do," saidTorn, "is act dumb as we can, like we ain't even heard 'boutwhat gwine on." Matilda considered that--but decided againstit. And one evening after she had served the Murrays their

desserts, she came into the dining room and exclaimed,wringing her hands, "Lawd, Massa an' Missy, y'all 'scuse me,jes' got to say my chilluns an' me is hearin' all dis talk going'roun', an' we He's mighty scared o' dem Yankees, as we sho'hopes you gwine take care of us if'n dey's trouble." Withsatisfaction, she noted the swift expressions of approval andrelief crossing their faces. "Welt, you're right to be scared, forthose Yankees are certainly no friends of yours?" said MissisMurray. "But don't you worry," said the massa reassuringly,"there's not going to be any trouble." Even Torn had to laughwhen Matilda described the scene. And he shared with thefamily another laugh when he told them how he had heard thata stable hand in Melville Township had handled the ticklishmatter. Asked by his massa whose side he'd be on if a warcame, the stable hand had said, "You's seed two dogs fightin'over a bone, Massa? Well, us niggers He's dat bone."Christmas, then New Year's came and went with hardly anythought of festivity throughout Alamance County. Every fewdays Tom's customers would arrive with news of secessionsby still more among the southern states--first Mississippi, thenFlorida, Alabama, Georgia, and Louisiana, all during themonth of January 1861, and on the first day of February,Texas. And all of them proceeded to join a "Confederacy" ofsouthern states headed by their own President, a man namedJefferson Davis. "Dat Massa Davis an' whole pass els ofother southern senators, congress mens an' high mens in deArmy," Torn reported to the family, "is resignin' to come onback home." "Torn, it's done got closer'n dat to us," exclaimedMatilda. "A man come today an' tol' massa dat 01' Jedge

Ruffin leavin' Haw River tomorrow to 'tend a big peaceconference in dat Washington, D.C.!" But a few days later,Torn heard his blacksmithing customers saying that JudgeRuffin had returned sadly reporting the peace conference afailure, ending in explosive arguments between the youngerdelegates from the North and the South. A black buggy driverthen told Torn that he had learned firsthand from the AlamanceCounty courthouse janitor that a mass meeting of nearlyfourteen hundred local white men had been held--with MassaMurray among them, Torn knew--and that Massa Holt, Irene'sformer owner, and others as important, had shouted that warmust be averted and pounded tables calling anyone whowould join the Confederates "traitors." The janitor also toldhim that a Massa Giles Mebane was elected to take to a statesecession convention the four-to-one vote in AlamanceCounty to remain within the Union. It became hard for thefamily to keep up with all that was reported each night eitherby Torn or Matilda. On a single day in March, news came thatPresident Lincoln had been sworn in, that a Confederate flaghad been unveiled at a huge ceremony in Montgomery,Alabama, and that the Confederacy's President, Jeff Davis,had declared the African slave trade abolished; feeling asthey knew he did about slavery, the family couldn't understandwhy. Only days later, tension rose to a fever pitch with theannouncement that the North Carolina legislature had calledfor an immediate twenty thousand military volunteers. Early onthe Friday morning of April 12, 1861, Massa Murray haddriven off to a meeting in the town of Mebane, and Lewis,James, Ashford, L'il Kizzy, and Mary were out in the field busily

transplanting young tobacco shoots when they began to noticean unusually large number of white riders passing along themain road at full gallop. When one rider briefly slowed, angrilyshaking his fist in their direction and shouting at themsomething they couldn't understand, Virgil sent L'il Kizzyracing from the field to tell Torn, Matilda, and Irene thatsomething big must have happened. The usually calm Tornlost his temper when Kizzy could tell him no more than shedid. "Shouted what at y'all?" 'he demanded. But she could onlyrepeat that the horseman had been too far away for them tohear clearly. "I better take de mule an' go fin' out!" Torn said."But you ain't got a travelin' pass!" shouted Virgil as he wentriding down the driveway. "Got to take dat chance!" Tornshouted back. By the time he reached the main road, it wasstarting to resemble a racetrack, and he knew that the ridersmust be headed for Company Shops, where the telegraphoffice received important news over wires strung high atoppoles. As they raced along, some of the horsemen wereexchanging shouts with each other; but they didn't seem toknow much more than he did. As he passed poor whites andblacks running on foot, Torn knew the worst had happened, buthis heart clenched anyway when he reached the railroadrepair yard settlement and saw the great, jostling crowdaround the telegraph office. Leaping to the ground andtethering his mule, he ran in a wide-circle around the edge ofthe mob of angrily gesturing white men who kept glancing upat the telegraph wires as if they expected to see somethingcoming over the wires. Off to one side, he reached a cluster ofblacks and heard what they were jabbering: "Massa Linkum

sho' gon' fight over us now!"... "Look like de Lawd caresump'n 'bout niggers after all!"... "Jes' can't b'lieve it!... "Free,Lawd, free!" Drawing one old man aside, Torn learned whathad happened. South Carolina troops were firing on thefederal Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor, and twenty-nineother federal bases in the South had been seized on theorders of President Davis. The war had actually begun. Evenafter Torn returned home with the news--arriving safely beforethe massa got home--the black grapevine was almost chokedwith bulletins for weeks. After two days of siege, they learned.Fort Sumter had surrendered with fifteen dead on both sides,and over a thousand slaves were sandbagging the entrancesto Charleston Harbor. After informing President Lincoln that hewould get no North Carolina troops, North Carolina GovernorJohn Ellis had pledged thousands with muskets to theConfederate Army. President Davis asked all southern whitemen between eighteen and thirty- five to volunteer to fight forup to three years, and ordered that of each ten male slaves onany plantation, one should be turned over for unpaid war labor.General Robert E. Lee resigned from the Army of the UnitedStates to command the Army of Virginia. And it was claimedthat every government building in Washington, D. C. " wasthick with armed soldiers and iron and cement barricades infear of southern invasion forces. White men throughoutAlamance County, meanwhile, were lining up by the scores tosign up and fight. Torn heard from a black wagon-driver thathis massa had called in his most trusted big-house servantand told him, "Now, boy, I'm expectin' you to look out aftermissis and the children till I get back, you hear?" And a

number of neighboring whites dropped in to shoe up theirhorses before assembling at Mebane Township with the restof the newly formed "Hawfields Company" of AlamanceCounty to board the train that waited to take them to a trainingcamp at Charlotte. A black buggy-driver who had taken hismassa and his missy there to see off their eldest sondescribed the scene for Torn: the womenfolk bitterly weeping,their boys leaning from the train's windows, making the air ringwith rebel yells, many of them shouting "Going' to ship thosesonsabitchin' Yankees an' be 'back 'fore breakfast!" "Youngmassa," said the buggy-driver, "had on his new gray uniform,an' he was a-cryin' jes' hard as of' massa and missy was, an'dey commence to kissin' and huggin' till dey finally jes' kind o'broke apart from one not her jes' standin' in de road clearin'dey throats an' snifflin'. Ain't no need me telling no lie, I was a-cryin', too! "

CHAPTER 111

Within their lamp lit cabin late that night, now for a secondtime Torn sat by the bed with Irene convulsively gripping hishand and when abruptly her moans of suffering in laboradvanced to- a piercing scream, he went bolting outside toget his mother. But despite the hour, intuitively Matilda had notbeen asleep and also had heard the scream. He met heralready rushing from her cabin, shouting back over hershoulder at a bug-eyed L'il Kizzy and Mary. "Bile some kittleso' water an' git it to me quick!" Within the next few moments,the other adults of the family had also popped from their

cabins, and Tom's five brothers joined his nervous pacing andwincing while the sounds of Irene's anguish continued. In thefirst streaks of dawn when an infant's shrill cry was heard,Tom's brothers converged upon him, pounding his back,wringing his hands--even Ashford--then in a little while agrinning Matilda stepped through the cabin door, exclaiming,"Torn, y'all got an udder 1'il of' gal!" After a while there in thebrightening morning, first Torn, then the rest of the familybecame a procession trooping in to see the wan but smilingIrene and the crinkly-faced brown infant. Matilda had taken thenews into the big house, where she hurriedly cookedbreakfast, and right after Massa and Missis Murray finishedeating, they also came to the slave row to see with delight thenew infant born into their ownership. Torn readily agreed toIrene's wish to name this second daughter "Ellen," after Irene'smother. He was so jubilant that he had become a father againthat he didn't remember until later how much he had wanted aboy. Matilda waited until the next afternoon to drop by theblacksmithing shop. "Now, Torn, you know what I'm thinkin''bout?" she asked.

Smiling at her, Torn said,

"You late. Mammy. I done already tol' eve' body--an' was fixin'to tell you--to come squeeze in de cabin dis comin' Saddaynight an' I'se gwine tell dis chile de fam'ly story jes' like I donewid Maria, when she born." As planned, the family did gather,and Torn continued the tradition that had been passed downfrom the late Gran'mammy Kizzy and Chicken George, and

there was much joking afterward that if ever anyone amongthem should neglect to relate the family chronicle to any newinfant, they could surely expect to hear from the ghost ofGran'mammy Kizzy. But even the excitement of Torn andIrene's second child soon diminished as a war's swiftly pacedevents gained momentum. As Torn busily shod horses andmules and made and repaired tools, he kept his ears strainedto hear every possible scrap of the exchanges of talk amongthe white customers gathered before his shop, and he wincedwith disappointment at their successive jubilant reports ofConfederate triumphs. Particularly a battle the white mencalled "Bull Run" had set the white customers hollering,beating each other's backs and throwing their hats into the airas they shouted such things as "What Yankees wasn't leftdead or hurt run for their lives!" or "Soon's Yankees hears ourboys comin', they shows they asses!" The jubilance wasrepeated over a big Yankee loss at a "Wilson's Creek" inMissouri, then not long after when at a "Ball's Bluff" in Virginia,hundreds of Yankees were left dead, including a bullet-riddledgeneral who had been a close personal friend of PresidentLincoln. "Dem white mens was all jympin' up an' down an'laughin' dat Pres'dent Lincoln beared it an' commence tocryin' like a baby," Torn told his somber family. By the end of1861--when Alamance County had sent twelve companies offinto the various fighting--he hated to report more than a little ofwhat he was continuing to hear, for it only deepened hisfamily's gloom, along with his own. "Lawd knows sho' don'tsound' like we's gwine git free, keep gwine like dis!" saidMatilda, glancing about one late Sunday afternoon's

semicircle of downcast faces. No one made any comment fora long while; then Lilly Sue said, as she nursed her sickly sonUriah, "All dat freedom talk! I done jes' give up any mo' hope!"Then a spring 1862 afternoon, when a rider came canteringdown the Murray driveway, wearing the Confederate officer'sgray uniform, even from some distance he seemed vaguelyfamiliar to Torn. As the rider drew nearer, with a shock Tornrealized that it was the former County Sheriff Cates, the feed-store owner, whose counsel to Massa Murray had forcedChicken George to leave the state. With growingapprehension, Torn saw Cates dismount and disappear withinthe big house; then before long Matilda came hurrying to theblacksmith shop, her brows furrowed with worry. "Massa wantyou, Torn. He talkin' wid dat no-good feed-store Massa Cates.What you reckon dey wants?" Tom's mind had been racingwith possibilities, including having heard his customers sayingthat many planters had taken slaves to battles with them, andothers had volunteered the war services of their slaves whoknew trades, especially such as carpentry, leather workingand blacksmithing. But he said as calmly as he could, "Jes'don' know, Mammy. I go find out is debes thing, I reckon."Composing himself, Torn walked heavily toward the bighouse.

Massa Murray said,

"Torn, you know Major Cates." "Yassuh." Torn did not look atCates, whose gaze he could feel upon him. "Major Cates tellsme he's commanding a new cavalry' unit being trained at

Company Shops, and they need you to do their horse shoeingTorn swallowed. He heard his words come with a hollowsound. "Massa, dat mean I go to de war?" It was Cates whoscornfully answered. "No niggers will go anywhere I'm fighiing,to fly if they as much as hear a bullet! We just need you toshoe horses where we're training." Torn gulped his relief."Yassuh." "The major and I have discussed it," said MassaMurray. "You'll work a week for his cavalry, then a week herefor me, for the duration of the war, which it looks like won't belong." Massa Murray looked at Major'Cates. "When would youwant him to start?" "Tomorrow morning, if that's all right, Mr.Murray." "Why, certainly, it's our duty for the South!" saidMassa Murray briskly, seeming pleased at his chance to helpthe war effort. "I hope the nigger understands his place," saidCates. "The military is no soft plantation." "Torn knows how toconduct himself, I'm sure." Massa Murray looked hisconfidence at Torn. "Tonight I'll write out a traveling pass andlet Torn take one of my mules and report to you tomorrowmorning." "That's fine!" Cates said, then he glanced at Torn."We've got horseshoes, but you bring your tools, and I'll tellyou now we want good, quick work. We've got no time towaste!" "Vassuh." Carrying a hastily assembled portablehorse shoeing kit on the mule's back, when Torn approachedthe railroad repair settlement at Company Shops, he saw thepreviously lightly wooded surrounding acres now dotted withlong, orderly rows of small tents. Closer, he heard buglessounding and the flat cracking of muskets being fired; then hetensed when he saw a mounted guard galloping toward him."Don't you see this is the Army, nigger? Where do you think

you're headed?" the soldier demanded. "Major Cates donetol' me come here an' shoe bosses," Torn said nervously."Well, the cavalry's over yonder"--the guard pointed. "Git!Before you git shot!" Booting the mule away, Torn soon cameover a small rise and saw four lines of horsemen executingmaneuvers and formations, and behind the officers who wereshouting orders, he distinguished Major Cates wheeling andprancing on his horse. He was aware when the major saw himthere on the mule and made a gesture, whereupon anothermounted soldier came galloping in his direction. Torn reinedup and waited. "You the blacksmith nigger?" "Yassuh." Theguard pointed toward a small cluster of tents. "You'll stay andwork down by those garbage tents. Soon as you get set up,we'll be sending horses." The horses in dire need of newmetal shoes came in an unending procession across Tom'sfirst week of serving the Confederate cavalry, and from firstdawn until darkness fell, he shod them until the underside ofhooves seemed to become a blur in his mind. Everything heoverheard the young cavalrymen say made it sound evenmore certain that the Yankees were being routed in everybattle, and it was a weary, disconsolate Torn who returnedhome to spend a week serving the regular customers forMassa Murray. He found the women of slave row in a greatstate of upset. Through the previous full night and morning,Lilly Sue's sickly son Uriah had been thought lost. Only shortlybefore Tom's return Matilda, while sweeping the front porch,had heard strange noises, and investigating she had foundthe tearful, hungry boy hiding under the big house. "I was jes'tryin' to hear what massa an' missy was sayin' 'bout freein' us

niggers, but under dere I couldn't hear nothin' at all Uriah hadsaid, and now both Matilda and Irene were busily trying tocomfort the embarrassed and distraught Lilly Sue, whosealways strange child had caused such a commotion. Tornhelped to calm her, then described to the family his ownweek's experience. "Ain't hardly nolhin' 1 seed or bearedmake it look no better," he concluded. Irene tried a futile effortto make them all feel at least" a little better. "Ain't never beenfree, so ain't gwine miss it nohow," she said. But Matilda said,"Tell y'all de truth, I'se jes' plain scairt somehow us gwine windup worse off'n we was befo'." The same sense of forebodingpervaded Torn as he began his second week of horseshoeing for the Confederate cavalry. During the third night, ashe lay awake, thinking, he heard a noise that seemed to becoming from one of the adjoining garbage tents. NervouslyTorn groped, and his fingers grasped his blacksmithinghammer. He tipped out into the faint moonlight to investigate.He was about to conclude that he had heard some foragingsmall animal when he glimpsed the shadowy human figurebacking from the garbage tent starting to eat something in hishands. Tipping closer, Torn completely surprised a thin, sallowfaced white youth. In the moonlight for a second, they stared ateach other, before the white youth went bolting away. But notten yards distant, the fleeing figure stumbled over somethingthat made a great clatter as he recovered himself anddisappeared into the night. Then armed guards who camerushing with muskets and lanterns saw Torn standing thereholding his hammer. "What you stealin', nigger?" Torn sensedinstantly the trouble he was in. To directly deny the accusation

would call a white man a liar--even more dangerous thanstealing. Torn all but babbled in his urgency of knowing that hehad to make them believe him. "Heared sump'n an' comelookin' an' seed a white man in de garbage, Massa, an' hebroke an' run." Exchanging incredulous expressions, the twoguards broke into scornful laughter. "We look that dumb toyou, nigger?" demanded one. "Major Cates said keep specialeye on you! You're going to meet him soon's he wakes up inthe morning, boy!" Keeping their gazes fixed on Torn, theguards held a whispered consultation.

The second guard said,

"Boy, drop that hammer!" Tom's fist instinctively clenched thehammer's handle. Advancing a step, the guard leveled hismusket at Tom's belly. "Drop it!" Tom's fingers loosed and heheard the hammer thud against the ground. The guardsmotioned him to march ahead of them for quite a distancebefore commanding him to stop in a small clearing before alarge tent where another armed guard stood. "We're on patrolan' caught this nigger stealin'," said one of the first two andnodded toward the large tent. "We'd of took care of him, butthe major told us to watch him an' report anything to himpersonal. We'll come back time the major gets up." The twoguards left Torn being scowled at by the new one, who rasped,"Lay down flat on your back, nigger. If you move you're dead."Torn lay down as directed. The ground was cold. Hespeculated on what might happen, pondered his chances ofescape, then the consequences if he did. He watched the

dawn come; then the first two guards returned as noises withinthe tent said that Major Cates had risen.

One of the guards called out,

"Permission to see you. Major?" "What about?" Torn heardthe voice growl from within. "Last night caught that blacksmithnigger stealing, sirl" There was a pause. "Where is he now?""Prisoner right outside, sir!" "Coming right out!" After anotherminute, the tent flap opened and Major Cates stepped outsideand stood eyeing Torn as a cat would a bird. "Well, highfalutin'nigger, tell me you been stealin'! You know how we feel aboutthat in the Army?" "Massa"--Passionately Torn told the truth ofwhat had happened, ending, "He was mighty hungry, Massa,rummaging in de garbage." "Now you got a white man eatinggarbage! You forget we've met before, plus I know your kind,nigger! Took care of that no-good free nigger pappy of yours,but you slipped loose. Well, this time I got you under the rulesof war." With incredulous eyes, Tom saw Cates go striding tosnatch a horsewhip hanging from the pommel of his saddleatop a nearby post. Tom's eyes darted, weighing escape, butall three guards leveled their muskets at him as Catesadvanced; his face contorted, raising the braided whip, hebrought it down lashing like fire across Tom's shoulders,again, again... When Torn went stumbling back in humiliationand fury to where he had been shoeing the horses, uncaringwhat might happen if he was challenged, he seized his kit oftools, sprang onto his mule, and did not stop until he reachedthe big house. Massa Murray listened to what had happened,

and he was reddened with anger as Torn finished, "Don't carewhat, Massa, I ain't gwine back." "You all right now, Torn?" "Iain't hurt none, 'cept in my mind, if dat's what you means, suh.""Well, I'm going to give you my word. If the major shows upwanting trouble, I'm prepared to go to his commandinggeneral, if necessary. I'm truly sorry this has happened. Justgo back out to the shop and do your work. " Massa Murrayhesitated. "Torn, I know you're not the oldest, but MissisMurray and I regard you as the head of your family. And wewant you to tell them that we look forward to us all enjoying therest of our lives together just as soon as we get theseYankees whipped. They're nothing but human devils!""Yassuh," Torn said. He thought that it was impossible for amassa to perceive that being owned by anyone could neverbe enjoyable. As the weeks advanced into the spring of 1862,Irene again became pregnant, and the news that Torn hearddaily from the local white men who were his customers gavehim a feeling that Alamance County seemed within the quietcenter of a hurricane of war being fought in other places. Heheard of a Battle of Shilo where Yankees and Confederateshad killed or injured nearly forty thousand apiece of eachother, until survivors had to pick their way among the dead,and so many wounded needed amputations that a huge pileof severed human limbs grew in the yard of the nearestMississippi hospital. That one sounded like a draw, but thereseemed no question that the Yankees were losing most of themajor battles. Near the end of August Torn heard jubilantdescriptions of how in a. econd Battle of Bull Run, theYankees had retreated with two generals among their dead,

and thousands of their troops straggling back intoWashington, D. C. " where civilians were said to be fleeing inpanic as clerks barricaded federal buildings, and both theTreasury's and the banks' money was being shipped to NewYork City while a gunboat lay under steam in the PotomacRiver, ready to evacuate President Lincoln and his staff. Thenat Harpers Ferry hardly two weeks later, a Confederate forceunder General Stonewall Jackson took eleven thousandYankee prisoners. "Torn, I jes' don' want to hear no mo' 'boutdis terrible war," said Irene one evening in September as theysat staring into their fireplace after he had told her of twothree-mile-long rows of Confederate and Yankee soldiershaving faced and killed each other at a place called Antietam"I sets here wid my belly full of our third young' un an' itsomehow jes' don' seem right dat all us ever talks 'bout anymo' is jes' fightin' an' killin'"--Simultaneously then they bothglanced behind them at the cabin door, having heard a soundso slight that neither of them paid it any further attention. Butwhen the sound came again, now clearly a faint knock, Irene,who sat closer, got up and opened the door, and Tom's browraised hearing a white man's pleading voice. "Beggingpardon. You got anything I can eat? I'm hungry. " Turning about,Torn all but fell from his chair, recognizing the face of the whiteyouth he had surprised among the garbage cans at thecavalry post. Quickly controlling himself, suspicious of sometrick, Torn sat rigidly, hearing his unsuspecting wife say, "Well,we ain't got nothin' but some cold cornbread left from supper.""Sho' would 'predate that, I ain't hardly et in two days."Deciding that it was only bizarre coincidence, Torn now rose

from his chair and moved to the door. "Been doin' a 1'il monjes' beggin', ain't you?" For halfa moment the youth staredquizzically at Torn, then his eyes flew wide; he disappeared sofast that Irene stood astounded--and she was even more sowhen Torn told her whom she had been about to feed. Thewhole of slave row became aware of the incredibleoccurrence on the next night when--with both Torn and Ireneamong the family gathering--Matilda mentioned that just afterbreakfast, "some scrawny po' white boy" had suddenlyappeared at the kitchen screen door piteously begging forfood; she had given him a bowl of leftover cold stew for whichhe had thanked her profusely before disappearing, then latershe had found the cleaned bowl sitting on the kitchen steps.After Torn explained who the youth was, he said, "Since youfeedin' 'im, I 'speck he still hangin' roun'. Probably jes' sleepin'somewhere out in de woods. I don' trust him nohow; first thingwe know, somebody be in trouble." "Ain't it de truth!"exclaimed Matilda. "Well, I tell you one thing, if he show me hisface ag'in, I gwine ax him to wait an' let 'im b'leeve I'se fixin''im sump'n while I goes an' tells massa." The trap was sprungperfectly when the youth reappeared the following morning.Alerted by Matilda, Massa Murray hurried through the frontdoor and around the side of the house as Matilda hastenedback to the kitchen in time to overhear the waiting youthcaught by total surprise. "What are you hanging around herefor?" demanded Massa Murray. But the youth neitherpanicked nor even seemed flustered. "Mister, Tm just woreout from travelin' an' stayin' hungry. You can't hold that 'againstno man, an' your niggers been good enough to feed me

something." Massa Murray hesitated, then said, "Well, I cansympathize, but you ought to know how hard the times arenow, so we can't be feeding extra mouths. You just have tomove on." Then Matilda heard the youth's voice abjectlypleading, "Mister, please let me stay. I ain't scared of no work.I just don't want to starve. I'll do any work you got. "

Massa Murray said,

"There's nothing for you here to do. My niggers work thefields." "I was born and raised in the fields. I'll work harder'nyour niggers, Mister--to just eat regular," the youth insisted."What's your name and where you come here from, boy?""George Johnson. From South Carolina, sir. The war prettynear tore up where I lived. I tried to join up but they said I'm tooyoung. I'm just turned sixteen. War mint our crops an'everything so bad, look like even no rabbits left. An' I left, too,figgered somewhere--anywhere else--had to be better. Butseem like the only somebody even give me the time of daybeen your niggers." Matilda could sense that the youth's storyhad moved Massa Murray.

Incredulously then she heard,

"Would you know anything at all about being an overseer?""Ain't never tried that." The George Johnson youth soundedstartled.

Then he added hesitantly,

"But I told you ain't nothin' I won't try." Matilda eased yet closerto the edge of the screen door to hear better in her horror. "I'vealways liked the idea of an overseer, even though my niggersdo a good job raising my crops. I'd be willing to try you out forjust bed and board to start--to see how it works out." "Mister--sir, what's your name?" "Murray," the massa said. "Well, yougot yourself an overseer, Mr. Murray." Matilda heard themassa chuckle. He said, "There's an empty shed over behindthe barn you can move into. Where's your stuff?" "Sir, all thestuff I've got, I've got on," said George Johnson. The shockingnews spread through the family with a thunderbolt's force."Jes' couldn't b'leeve what I was hearin'!" exclaimed Matilda,ending her incredible report, and the family's members fairlyexploded. "Massa mus' be going' crazy!"... "Ain't we run hisplace fine ourselves?"... "Jes' 'cause dey both white, data ll... "Speck he gwine see dat po' cracker different time we sees toit 'enough things go wrong! " But as furious as they were, fromtheir first direct confrontation with the impostor out in the fieldon the following morning, he immediately made it difficult fortheir anger to remain at a fever pitch. Already out in the fieldwhen they arrived led by Virgil, the scrawny, sallow GeorgeJohnson came walking to meet them. His thin face wasreddened and his Adam's apple bobbed as he said, "I can'tblame y'all none for hatin' me, but I can ask y'all to wait a littleto see if I turn out bad as y'all think. You the first niggers I everhad anything to do with, but seem like to me y'all got blacksame as I got white, an' I judge anybody by how they act. Iknow one thing, y'all fed me when I was hungry, and it wasplenty of white folks hadn't. Now seem like Mr. Murray got his

mind set on having a overseer, and I know y'all could help himgit rid of me, but I figger you do that, you be takin' yourchances the next one he git might be a whole lot worse." Noneof the family seemed to know what to say in response. Thereseemed nothing to do except filter away and set' to work, all'of them covertly observing George John- son proceeding towork as hard as they, if not harder--in fact, he seemedobsessed to prove his sincerity. Tom's and Irene's thirddaughter--Viney--was born at the end of the newcomer's firstweek. By now out in the field, George Johnson boldly satdown with the members of the family at lunch times appearingnot to notice how Ashford conspicuously got up, scowling, andmoved elsewhere. "Y'all see I don't know nothin' 'boutoverseein', so y'all needs to help me along," George Johnsontold them frankly. "It would be no good for Mr. Murray to comeout here an' figger I ain't doin' the job like he want." The ideaof training their overseer amused even the usually solemn Tornwhen it was discussed in the slave row that night, and allagreed that the responsibility naturally belonged to Virgil,since he had always run the field work. "First thing," he said toGeorge Johnson, "you gon' have to change whole lot o' yo'ways. "Co'se, wid all us lookin' all de time, massa ain't likely togit close 'to' us can give you a signal. Den you have to hurry upan' git 'way from too close roun' us. Reckon you knows whitefolks an' 'specially oberseers ain't s'posed to seem like dey'sclose wid niggers. " "Well, in South Carolina where I comefrom, seem like the niggers never got too close to white folks,"George Johnson said. "Well, dem niggers is smart!" saidVirgil. "De nex' thing, a massa want to feel like his oberseer

makin' his niggers work harder'n dey did befo' de oberseercome. You got to learn how to holler, "Git to work, youniggers!" an' sich as dat. An' anytime you's roun' massa or anymo' white folks, don' never call us by our names de way youdoes. You got to learn how to growl an' cuss an' sound' realmean, to make massa feel like you ain't too easy an' got usgoing'. " When Massa Murray did next visit his fields, GeorgeJohnson made strong efforts, hollering, cursing, eventhreatening everyone in the field, from Virgil, down. "Well, howthey doing?" asked Massa Murray. "Pretty fair for niggersbeen on their own," George Johnson drawled, "but I 'speckanother week or two ought to git 'em shaped up awright." Thefamily rocked with laughter that night, imitating GeorgeJohnson, along with Massa Murray's evident pleasure.Afterward when the mirth had waned, George John- sonquietly told them how it had been to be dirt-poor for all of hisearlier life, even before his family had been routed with theirfields ruined by the war, until he had sought some new, betterlife. "He 'bout de only white man we ever gwine meet dat's jes'plain honest 'bout his self Virgil expressed their collectiveappraisal. "I tell de truth, I 'joys listenin' to 'im talk," said LillySue, and L'il George scoffed, "He talk like any other cracker.What make him different he de firs' one I ever seen ain't try toact like sump'n he wasn't. Demos is so shame of what dey is."Mary laughed. "Well, dis one ain't shame, not long as he keepeatin' de way he is." "Soun' like to me y'all done really taken alikenin' to 01' George," said Matilda. More laughter rose attheir homemade overseer's new nickname, "0ld George,"since he was so ridiculously young. And Matilda was correct:

Incredibly enough, they had come to like him genuinely.

CHAPTER 112

The North and the South seemed locked together like stags inmortal combat. Neither seemed able to mount a successfulcampaign to put the other away. Torn began to notice somedespondency in his customers' conversations. It was a buoy tothe hope yet strong in him for freedom. The family plunged intointense speculation when 01' George Johnson saidmysteriously, "Mr. Murray done said I could go 'tend to somebusiness. I be back jes' quick as I can." Then the next morninghe was gone. "What you reckon it is?" "Way he always talked,wasn't nothin' lef to take care of where he come from." "Maybesump'n to do wid his folks"--"But he ain't mentioned no folks--leas' ways not par- tic'lar." "He bound to got somesomewhere." "Maybe he done 'cided to go jine de war." "Well,I sho' cain't see 01' George wantin to shoot nobody." " Speckhe jes' finally got his belly full an' we done seen de las' o' him. ""Oh, heish up, Ashford! You ain't never got nothin' good to say'bout him or nobody else!" Nearly a month had passed whenone Sunday a whooping and hollering arose--for 01' Georgewas back, grinning shamefacedly, and with him was a painfullyshy creature of a girl as sallow and scrawny as himself, andher eight- months pregnancy made her seem as if she hadswallowed a pumpkin. "This is my wife. Miss Martha," 01'George Johnson told them. "Jes' befo' I left, we'd got married,an' I tol' 'er I'd be back when I found us somewhere. How comeI hadn't said nothin' 'bout a wife was it was hard enough to find

anybody willing to have jes' me. " He grinned at his Martha."Why'n't you say hello to the folks?" Martha dutifully said helloto them all, and it seemed a long speech for her when sheadded, "George tol' me a lot 'bout y'all." "Well, I hope whateverhe tol' you was good!" Matilda said brightly, and 01' Georgesaw her glance a second time at Martha's extreme pregnancy."I ain't knowed when I left we had a baby comin'. I jes' kepthavin' a feelin I better git back. An' there she was in a familyway." The fragile Martha seemed such a perfect match for 01'George Johnson that the family felt their hearts going out tothe pair of them. "You mean you ain't even tol' Massa Murray?"asked Irene. "Naw, I ain't. Jes' said I had some businesssame as I tol' y'all. If he want to run us off, we jes' have to go,that's all. " "Well, I know massa ain't gwine feel like dat," saidIrene, and Matilda echoed, " " Co'se he ain't. Massa ain't datkind o' man. " "Well, tell him I got to see him first chance," saidOF George Johnson to Matilda. Leaving nothing to chance,Matilda first informed Missis Murray, somewhat dramatizingthe situation. "Missy, I know he a oberseer an' all dat, but himan' dat po' 1'il wife o' his'n jes' scairt to death massa gwinemake 'em leave 'cause he hadn't mentioned no wife befo' an'times is so hard an' all. An' her time ain't far off, neither." "Well,of course I can't make my husband's decisions, but I'm surehe'll not put them out"--"Yes'm, I knowed y'all wouldn't,'specially bein's how I 'speck she ain't no mon thirteen orfo'teen years of', Missis, an' lookin' ready to have dat baby anyminute, an' done jes' got here an' don't know nobody 'ceptin'us--an' y'all."

Missis Murray said,

"Well, as I say, it's not my affair, it's Mr. Murray's decision. But Ido feel certain they can stay on." Returning to the slave row,Matilda told a grateful OF George Johnson not to worry, thatMissis Murray had expressed certainty there would be noproblem. Then she hurried to Irene's cabin, where after quickconsultation, the two of them ambled over to the convertedsmall shed behind the barn where the 01' George Johnsonswere. Irene knocked, and when 01' George Johnson came tothe door, she said, "We worried 'bout yo' wife. Teller we doy'all's cookin' an' washin', 'cause she got to save up whatstrength she got fo' her to have y'all's baby." "She sleep now.Sho' 'preciate it," he said. " " Cause she been throwin' up a lotever since we got here. " "Ain't no wonder. She don't look tohave hardly de strength of a bird," said Irene. "You ain't had nobusiness bringin' her all dat long way right dis time nohow,"Matilda added severely. "Tried my best to teller that when Iwent back. But she wouldn't have it no other way." "S'posesump'n would o' happened. You don't know nothin' in de worl' "bout liverin' no baby! " exclaimed Matilda.

He said,

"I can't hardly believe I'm gon' be no daddy nohow." "Well, yousho' 'bout to!" Irene nearly laughed at OF George's worriedexpression, then she and Matilda turned and headed back totheir cabins. She and Matilda worried privately. "De po' galdon look no ways right to me," Matilda muttered in confidence.

"Can nigh see her bones. An' speck it 'way too late to git herbuilt up right." "Feel like she gwine have a mighty hard time,"Irene prophesied. "Lawd! I sho' ain't never thought I'd end uplikin' no po' white folks!" Less than two more weeks hadpassed when one midday Martha's pains began. The wholeslave-row family heard her agony from within the shed, asMatilda and Irene labored with her on through the night untilshortly before the next noon. Finally when Irene emerged, herface told the haggard 01' George Johnson even before hermouth could form the words. "B'leeve Miss Martha gon' pullthrough. Yo' baby was a gal but she dead."

CHAPTER 113

The late afternoon of the 1863 New Year's Day, Matilda camealmost flying into the slave row. "Y'all seen dat white man jes'rid in. here? Y'all ain't gon' b'leevef He in dere cussin' tomassa it jes' come over de railroad telegraph wire Pres'dentLincoln done signed "Mancipation Proclamation dat set usfree!" The' galvanizing news thrust the black Murrays amongthe millions more like them exulting wildly within the privacy oftheir cabins. . but with each passing week the joyous awaitingof the freedom dwindled, diminished, and finally receded intoa new despair the more it became clear that within thesteadily more bloodied, ravaged Confederacy the presidentialorder had activated nothing but even more bitter despising ofPresident Lincoln. So deep was the despair in the Murrayslave row that despite Tom's intermittent reports of theYankees winning major battles, including even the capture of

Atlanta, they refused to build up their freedom hopes anymoreuntil toward the end of 1864, when they had not seen Torn soexcited for almost two years. He said that his white customerswere describing how untold thousands of murderous, pillagingYankees, marching five miles abreast under some insaneGeneral Sherman, were laying waste to the state of Georgia.However often the family's hopes had previously beendashed, they scarcely could suppress their renewed hope offreedom as Torn brought subsequent nightly reports. "Soun'like de Yankees ain't leavin' nothin'! Dem white mens swearsdey's burnin' de fiel's, de big houses, de barns! Dey's killin' demules an' cookin' de cows an' everythin' else dey can eat!Whatever dey ain't bumin' an' eatin' dey's jes' ruinin', plusstealin' anything dey can tote off! An' dey says it's niggers allout in de woods an roads thick as ants dat done lef dey massas an' plantations to follow dem Yankees 'til dat Gen'lSherman his self beggin' 'em to go back where dey comefum! " Then not long after the Yankees' triumphal march hadreached the sea, Torn breathlessly reported "Charleston donefell!"... and next "Gen'l Grant done took Riehmon'!"... andfinally in April of 1865, "Gen'l Lee done surrendered de whole"Federacy Army! De South done give up!" The jubilance in theslave row was beyond any measure now as they poured outacross the big-house front yard and up the entry lane to reachthe big road to join the hundreds already there, milling about,leaping and springing up and down, whooping, shouting,singing, preaching, praying. "Free, Lawd, free!"... "ThankGawd A'mighty, free at las'!" But then within a few days thespirit of celebration plunged into deep grief and mourning with

the shattering news of the assassination of President Lincoln."Eeeeeeevil!" shrieked Matilda as the family wept around her,among the millions like them who had revered the fallenPresident as their Moses. Then in May, as it was happeningall across the defeated South, Massa Murray summoned all ofhis slaves into the front yard that faced the big house. Whenthey were all assembled in a line, they found it hard to looklevelly at the drawn, shocked faces of the massa, the weepingMissis Murray, and the 01' George Johnsons, who, too, werewhite. In an anguished voice then, Massa Murray read slowlyfrom the paper in his hand that the South had lost the war.Finding it very hard not to choke up before the black familystanding there on the earth before him, he said, "I guess itmeans y'all as free as us. You can go if you want to, stay on ifyou want, an' whoever stays, we'll try to pay you something"The black Murrays began leaping, singing, praying,screaming anew, "We's free!"... "Free at las'!"... "Thank you,Jesus!" The wild celebration's sounds carried through theopened door of the small cabin where Lilly Sue's son, Uriah,now eight years of age, had laid for weeks suffering a deliriumof fever. "Freedom! Freedom!" Hearing it, Uriah came boilingup off his cot, his nightshirt flapping; he raced first for thepigpen shouting, "OF pigs quit gruntin', you's free! " Hecoursed to the barn, " 01' cows, quit givin' milk, you's free! "The boy raced to the chickens next, " 01' hens quit layin', you'sfree!--and so's ME! " But that night, with their celebrationhaving ended in their sheer exhaustion, Torn Murrayassembled his large family within the barn to discuss whatthey should do now that this long-awaited "freedom" had

arrived. "Freedom ain't gwine feed us, it just let us 'cide whatwe wants to do to eat," said Torn. "We ain't got much money,and 'sides me blacksmithin' an' Mammy cookin', de onlyworkin we knows is in de fiel's," he appraised their dilemma.Matilda reported that Massa Murray had asked her to urgethem all to consider his offer to parcel out the plantation, andhe would go halves with anyone interested in sharecropping.There was a heated debate. Several of the family's adultswished to leave as quickly as possible. Matilda protested, "Iwants dis family to stay togedder. Now 'bout dis talk o' movin',s'pose we did an' y'all's pappy Chicken George git back, an'nobody couldn't even tell him which away we'd gone! " Quietfell when Torn made it clear he wished to speak, "Gwine telly'all how come we can't leave yet--it's 'cause we jes' ain't noways ready. Whenever we git ourselves ready, I'll be de firs'one to want to go." Most were finally convinced that Torntalked "good sense," and the family meeting broke up. TakingIrene by the hand, Torn went walking with her in the moonlighttoward the fields. Vaulting lightly over a fence, he took longstrides, made a right-angle turn, and paced off a square, thenstriding back toward the rail fence, he said, "Irene, that's goingto be ours!" She echoed him, softly. "Ours." Within a week, thefamily's separate units were each working their fields. Amorning when Torn had left his blacksmith shop to help hisbrothers, he recognized a lone rider along the road as theformer Cavalry Major Cates, his uniform tattered and hishorse spavined. Cates also recognized Torn, and riding nearthe fence, he reined up. "Hey, nigger, bring me a dipperful ofyour water!" he called. Torn looked at the nearby water bucket,

then he studied Cates' face for a long moment before movingto the bucket. He filled the dipper and walked to hand it toCates. "Things is changed now, Mr. Cates," Torn spokeevenly. "The only reason I brought you this water is because I'dbring any thirsty man a drink, not because you hollered. I jes'want you to know that."Gates banded back the dipper. "Git meanother one, nigger." Torn took the dipper and dropped itback into the bucket and walked off, never once looking back.But when another rider came galloping and hallooing alongthe road with a battered black derby distinguishable above afaded green scarf, those out in the fields erupted into a massfootrace back toward the old slave row. "Mammy, he's back!He's back!" When the horse reached the yard. ChickenGeorge's sons hauled him off onto their shoulders and wenttrooping with him to the weeping Matilda. "What you belle ringfo', woman?" he demanded in mock indignation, hugging heras if he would never let go, but finally he did, yelling to hisfamily to assemble and be quiet. "Tell y'all later 'bout all deplaces I been an' things I done since we las' seen one not her"hollered Chicken George. "But right now I got to 'quaint youwid where we's all gwine togedder!" In pin drop quiet and withhis born sense of drama, Chicken George told them now thathe had found for them all a western Tennessee settlementwhose white people anxiously awaited their arrival to helpbuild a town. "Lemme tell y'all sump'n! De lan' where wegoing' so black an' rich, you plant a pig's tail an' a hog'll grow...you can't hardly sleep nights for de watermelons growin' sofasdey cracks open like firecrackers! I'm tellin' you it's possumslayin' under 'simmon trees too fat to move, wid de 'simmon

sugar drippin' down on 'em thick as 'lasses.. .1" The familynever let him finish in their wild excitement. As some wentdashing off to boast to others on adjacent plantations, Tornbegan planning that afternoon how to alter a farm wagon intoa covered "Rockaway," of which about ten could move all ofthe units of the family to this new place. But by that sundown adozen other heads of newly freed families had come--notasking, but demanding that their families, too, were going--they were black Holts, Fitzpatricks, Perms, Taylors, Wrights,Lakes, MacGregors, and others, from local Alamance Countyplantations. Amid the next two months of feverish activity, themen built the "Rockaways." The women butchered, cooked,canned, and smoked foodstuffs for travel and selected whatother vital things to take. Old Chicken George strode about,supervising every activity, loving his hero role. Torn Murraywas thronged with volunteered assistance from yet morenewly freed families, and with assurances that they wouldswiftly obtain their own wagons to become their families'"Rockaways." Finally he announced that all who wished couldgo---but that there must be but one "Rockaway" per familyunit. When at last twenty-eight wagons were packed andready to roll on the following sunup, in a strange calm sense ofsadness, the freed people went about gently touching thefamiliar things, wash pots the fence posts knowing that it wasfor the last time. For days, the black Murrays had caught onlyglimpses of the white Murrays. Matilda wept, "Lawd, I hates tothink what dey's going' through, I swears I does!" Torn Murrayhad retired for the night within his wagon when he heard thelight knocking at the tailgate. Somehow he knew who was

there even before he opened the end flap .01' GeorgeJohnson stood there, his face working with emotion, his handswringing his hat. "Torn--like a word with you, if you got time"--Climbing down from the wagon, Torn Murray followed 01'George Johnson off a way in the moonlight. When finally 01'George stopped, he was so choked with embarrassment andemotion that he could hardly talk. "Me and Martha beentalkin'... jes' seem like y'all the only folks we got. Torn, we beenwonderin' if y'all let us go along where you going'?" It wasawhile before Torn spoke. "If it was jes' my family, I could tellyou right now. But it's a lot mo'. I jes' have to talk it over wid'em all. I let you know"--Torn went to each other wagon,knocking gently, calling out the men. Gathering them, he toldthem what happened. There was a moment of heavy quiet.Torn Murray offered, "He was 'bout debes oberseer for us Iever heard of 'cause he wasn't no real oberseer at all, heworked wid us shoulder to shoulder." There was sharpopposition from some, some of it anti white. But after a whilesomeone spoke quietly, "He can't help it if he white"--Finally, avote was taken, and a majority said that the Johnsons couldgo. One day's delay was necessary to build a "Rockaway" for01' George and Martha. Then the next sunup, a singlefilecaravan of twenty-nine covered "Rockaways" went creakingand groaning off the Murray place into the dawn. Ahead of thewagons rode the derbied and scar fed sixtyseven-year-oldChicken George, carrying his old one-eyed fighting roosteratop his horse "Old Bob." Behind him, Torn Murray drove thefirst wagon, with Irene beside him, and behind them, goggle-eyed in excitement, were their children, the youngest of them

the two-year-old Cynthia. And after twenty-seven morewagons whose front seats held black or mulatto men and theirwives, finally the anchor wagon's seat held 01' George andMartha Johnson, who soon were peering to see clearlythrough the haze of dust raised by all the hoofs and wheelsmoving ahead of them toward what Chicken George hadsworn would prove to be the promised land.

CHAPTER 114

"Dis is it?" asked Torn. "De promised lan'?" asked Matilda."Where dem pigs an' watermelons poppin' out'n de groun'?"asked one of the children, as Chicken George reined hishorse to a halt. Ahead of them was a clearing in the woodswith a few wooden storefronts at the intersection of the ruttedroad they were on and another one crossing it at right angles.Three white men--one sitting on a nail keg, another in arocker, the third propped on the back legs of a stool with hisback to a clapboard wall and his feet on a hitching post--nudged one another and nodded at the line of dusty wagonsand their passengers. A couple of white boys rolling a hoopstopped in -their tracks and stared, the hoop rolling on beyondthem into the middle of the road, where it twirled a few timesand fell. An elderly black man sweeping off a stoop looked atthem impassively for a long moment and then broke into asmall, slow smile. A large dog that was scratching himselfbeside a rain barrel paused, leg in the air, to cock his head atthem, then went back to scratching. "I done tol' y'all dis here anew settlement," said Chicken George, talking fast. "Dey's

only a hundred or so white folks livin' roun' here yet, an' evenwid jes' our fifteen wagons lef after all dem dat dropped off tosettle on de way here, we's jes' 'bout gon' double depop'lation. We's git ting in on de group' flo' of a growin' town.""Well, ain't nothin' it can do but grow, dat's sho'," said L'ilGeorge without smiling. "Jes' wait'll y'all sees de primefarmlan' dey got," said his father brightly, rubbing his handswith anticipation. "Prob'ly swamp," muttered Ashford, wiselynot loud enough for Chicken George to hear. But it was prime--rich and loamy, thirty acres of it for every family, scattered oncheckerboard plots from the outskirts of town all the way to thewhite-owned farms that already occupied the best land inLauderdale County, on the banks of the Hatchie River sixmiles to the north. Many of the white farms were as large as allof their property put together, but thirty acres was thirty morethan any of them had ever owned before, and they had theirhands full with that. Still living in their cramped wagons, thefamilies began grubbing up stumps and clearing brush thenext morning. Soon the furrows had been plowed and theirfirst crops planted--mostly cotton, some corn, with plots forvegetables and a patch for flowers. As they set about the nexttask of sawing down trees and splitting logs to build theircabins, Chicken George circulated from one farm to anotheron his horse, volunteering his advice on construction andtrumpeting how he had changed their lives. Even amongHenning's white settlers he boasted about how those he hadbrought with him were going to help the town grow andprosper, not failing to mention that his middle son Torn wouldsoon be opening the area's first blacksmith shop. One day

soon afterward, three white men rode up to Tom's plot as heand his sons were mixing a load of mud with hog bristles tochink the walls of his half-built cabin. "Which one of you is theblacksmith?" one called from his horse. Sure that his firstcustomers had arrived even before he could get set up forbusiness, Torn stepped out proudly. "We hear you're figurin' toopen a blacksmith shop here in town," one said. "Yassuh.Been lookin' fo' debes spot to build it. Was thinkin' maybe datempty lot nex' to de sawmill if'n nobody else got his eye on it."The three men exchanged glances. "Well, boy," the secondman went on, "no need of wasting time, we'll get right to thepoint. You can blacksmith, that's fine. But if you want to do it inthis town, you'll have to work for a white man that owns theshop. Had you figured on that?" Such a rage flooded up inTorn that nearly a minute passed before he could trust himselfto speak. "Nawsuh, I ain't," he said slowly. "Me an my family'sfree peoples now, we's jes' lookin' to make our livin's likeanybody else, by workin' hard at what we knows to do." Helooked directly into the men's eyes. "If I cain't own what I dowid my own hands, den dis ain't no place fo' us."

The third white man said,

"If that's the way you feel, I 'speck you're going to be ridin' along way in this state, boy." "Well, we's used to travelm'," saidTorn. "Ain't wantin' to cause no trouble nowhere, but I got to bea man. I just wisht I could o' knowed how y'all felt here so myfamily wouldn't of troubled y'all by stoppin' at all "Well, thinkabout it, boy," said the second white man. "It's up to you." "You

people got to learn not to let all this freedom talk go to yourheads," said the first man. Turning their horses around withoutanother word, they rode off. When the news went flashingamong the farm plots, the heads of each family came hurryingto see Torn. "Son," said Chicken George, "you's knowed allyo' life how white folks is. Cain't you jes' start out dey way?Den good as you blacksmiths, won't take hardly no time to git'em to turn roun'." "All dat travelin' an now pack up an' goagain!" exclaimed Matilda. "Don't do dat toyo fam'ly, son!"Irene joined the chorus: "Torn, please! I'se jes' tired! Tired!"But Tom's face was grim. "Things don't never git better less'nyou makes 'em better!" he said. "Ain't stayin' nowhere I can'tdo what a free man got a right to do. Ain't axin' nobody else togo wid us, but we packin' our wagon an' leavin' tomorrow." "I'mcomin', too!" said Ashford angrily. That night Torn went outwalking by himself, weighed down by guilt at the new hardshiphe was imposing upon his family. He played back in his mindthe ordeal they had all endured in the wagons, rolling forweeks on end... and he thought of something Matilda had saidoften: "You search hard enough in sump'n bad, you's jes' liableto find sump'n good." When the idea struck him, he keptwalking for another hour, letting the plan become a picture inhis mind. Then he strode quickly back to the wagon where hisfamily was sleeping and went to bed. In the morning, Torn toldJames and Lewis to build temporary lean-tos for Irene and thechildren to sleep in, for he would need the wagon. As thefamily stood around watching him in amazement--Ashford withrising disbelief and fury--he unloaded the heavy anvil withVirgil's help, and mounted it atop a newly sawed stump. By

noon he had set up a makeshift forge. With everyone stillstaring, he next removed the canvas top of the wagon, then itswooden sides, leaving the bare flatbed, on which he now wentto work with his heaviest tools. Gradually they began toperceive the astounding idea that Torn was turning into areality. By the end of that week, Torn drove right through townwith his rolling blacksmith shop, and there wasn't a man,woman, or child who didn't stand there gaping at the anvil,forge, and cooling tub, with racks holding a neat array ofblacksmithing tools, all mounted sturdily on a wagon bedreinforced with heavy timbers. Nodding politely at all the menhe met--white and black--Tom asked if they had blacksmithingjobs he could do at reasonable rates. Within days, hisservices were being requested at more and more farmsaround the new settlement, for no one could think of a goodreason why a black man shouldn't do business from a wagon.By the time they realized that he was doing far better with hisrolling shop than he ever could have done with a stationaryone, Torn had made himself so indispensable around townthat they couldn't afford to raise any objections even if they'dwanted to. But they didn't really want to, because Torn seemedto them the kind of man who did his job and minded his ownbusiness, and they couldn't help respecting that. In fact, thewhole family soon established themselves as decent Christianfolk who paid their bills and kept to themselves--and "stayedin their place," as Ol' George Johnson said a group of whitemen had put it in a conversation he'd overheard down at thegeneral store. But O1' George, too, was treated as one of"them"--shunned socially, kept waiting in stores till all the other

white customers had been taken care of, even informed onceby a merchant that he'd "bought" a hat that he'd tried on andput back on the shelf when he found it was too small. He toldthe family about it later, perching the hat atop his head forthem, and everybody laughed as hard as he did. "I'sesurprised dat hat don't fit," cracked L'il George, "dumb as youis to try it 'on in dat sto'." Ashford, of course, got so angry thathe threatened--emptily--to "go down dere an 'stuff it down datpecker wood throat." However little use the white communityhad for them--and vice versa--Tom and the others knew verywell that the town's tradesmen could hardly contain theirelation at the brisk increase in business they'd beenresponsible for. Though they made most of their own clothes,raised most of their own food, and cut most of their ownlumber, the quantities of nails, corrugated tin, and barbed wirethey bought over the next couple of years testified to the rateat which their own community was growing. With all theirhouses, barns, sheds, and fences built by' 1874, the family--led by Matilda--turned its attention to an enterprise theyconsidered no less important to their welfare: the constructionof a church to replace the makeshift bush arbors that hadbeen serving as their place of worship. It took almost a year,and much of their savings, but when Torn, his brothers, andtheir boys had finished building the last pew and Irene'sbeautiful white hand woven cloth--emblazoned with a purplecross--had been draped over the pulpit in front of the $250stained-glass window they'd ordered from Sears, Roebuck,everyone agreed that the New Hope Colored MethodistEpiscopal - Church was well worth the time, effort, and

expense it represented. So many people attended the servicethat first Sunday--just about every black person within twentymiles who could walk or be carried--that the crowd spilled outthe doors and windows and across the lawn surrounding it.But nobody had any trouble hearing every word of the ringingsermon delivered by the Reverend Sylus Henning, a formerslave of Dr. D. C. Henning, an Illinois Central Railroadexecutive with extensive land holdings around town. In thecourse of his oration, L'il George Whispered to Virgil that theReverend seemed to be under the impression that he was Dr.Henning, but no one within earshot would have dared toquestion the fervor of his preaching.

After the last heart-rending chorus of

"The Old Rugged Cross," again--led by Matilda, looking moreradiant than Chicken George had ever seen her--thecongregation dried their eyes and filed out past the preacher,pumping his hand and slapping him on the back. Retrievingtheir picnic baskets on the porch, they spread sheets on thelawn and proceeded to relish the fried chicken, pork chopsandwiches, deviled eggs, potato salad, cole slaw, pickles,cornbread, lemonade, and so many cakes and pies that evenL'il George was gasping for breath when he finished the lastslice. As they all sat chatting, or strolled around--the men andboys in coat and tie, the older women all in white, the girls inbright-colored dresses with a ribbon at the waist--Matildawatched misty-eyed as her brood of grandchildren ran abouttirelessly playing tag and catch. Turning finally to her husband

and putting her hand on his, gnarled and scarred withgamecock scratches, she said quietly, "I won't never forget disday, George. We done come a long way since you first comecourtin' me wid dat derby hat o' yours. Our fam'ly done growedup an' had chilluns of dey own, an' de Lawd seen fit to keep usall togedder. De onliest thing I wish is you Mammy Kizzy couldbe here to see it wid us." Eyes brimming. Chicken Georgelooked back at her. "She lookin', baby. She sho' is! "

CHAPTER 115

Promptly at the noon hour on Monday, during their break fromthe fields, the children started filing into church for their firstday of school indoors. For the past two years, ever since shecame to town after being one among the first graduating classfrom Lane College in Jackson, Tennessee, Sister CarrieWhite had been teaching out under the bush arbors, and thisuse of the church was a great occasion. The New Hope CMEstewards--Chicken George, Torn, and his brothers--hadcontributed the money to buy pencils, tablets, and primers on"readin', writin', an' 'rithmetic." Since she taught all the childrenof school age at the same time, in her six grades SisterCarrie had pupils ranging from five to fifteen, including Tom'soldest five: Maria Jane, who was twelve; Ellen; Viney; L'ilMatilda; and Elizabeth, who was six. Young Torn, next in line,began the year after that, and then Cynthia, the youngest. Bythe time Cynthia was graduated in 1883, Maria Jane haddropped out, gotten married, and given birth to her first child;and Elizabeth, who was the best student in the family, had

taught their father Torn Murray how to write his name and hadeven become his blacksmithing bookkeeper. He needed one,for by this time he had become so successful with his rollingblacksmith shop that he had also built a stationary one--without a murmur of objection--and was among the moreprosperous men in town. About a year after Elizabeth went towork for her father, she fell in love with John Toland, anewcomer to Henning who had gone to work sharecroppingon the six-hundred- acre farm of a white family out near theHatchie River. She had met him in town one day at the generalstore and been impressed, she told her mother Irene, not onlyby his good looks and muscular build but also by his dignifiedmanner and obvious intelligence. He could even write a little,she noticed, when he signed for a receipt. Over the nextseveral weeks, during the walks she'd take with him in thewoods once or twice each week, she also found out that hewas a young man of fine reputation, a churchgoer, who hadambitions of saving up enough to start a farm of his own; andthat he was as gentle as he was strong. It wasn't until they'dseen each other regularly for almost two months--and hadbegun to talk secretly about marriage--that Torn Murray, whohad known about them from the start, ordered her to stopskulking around and bring him home from church the followingSunday. Elizabeth did as she was told. John Toland couldn'thave been friendlier or more respectful when he wasintroduced to Torn Murray, who was even more taciturn thanusual, and excused himself after only a few minutes of painfulpleasantries. After John Toland left, Elizabeth was called byTorn Murray, who said sternly: "It's plain to see from de way

you act roun' dat boy dat you's stuck on 'im. You two gotanythin' in mind?" "What you mean, Pappy?" she stuttered,flushing hotly. "Gittin' married! Dat's on your mind, ain't it?"She couldn't speak. "You done tol' me. Well, I'd like to give youmy blessin's, 'cause I wants you to be happy much as youdoes. He seem like a good man--but I can't let you hitch upwid 'im." Elizabeth looked at him uncomprehendingly. "He toohigh-yaller. He could nigh 'bout pass fo' white--jes' not quite.He ain't fish or fowl. Y'unnerstan' what I'se sayin'? He too lightfo' black folks, too dark fo' white folks. He cain't he'p what helook like, but don't care how hard he try, he never gon' b'longnowhere. An' you got to think 'bout what yo' chilluns might looklike! I don't want dat kinda life fo' you, "Lizabeth." "But Pappy,ever' body like John! If'n we gits 'long wid 01' GeorgeJohnson, why can't we git 'long wid him?" "Ain't de same!""But Pappy!" she was desperate. "You talk 'bout people not'ceptin 'im! You's de one ain't!" "Dat's 'enough! You done saidall I'm gon' hear 'bout it. You ain't got de sense to keep 'wayfrom dat kinda grief, I gotta do it fo' you. I don' want you seem''im no mo'." "But Pappy..." She was sobbing. "It's over wid!Dat's all is to it!" "If'n I cain't marry John, ain't never gon' marrynobody!" Elizabeth screamed. Torn Murray turned and strodefrom the room, slamming the door. In the next room, hestopped. "Torn, what do you..." Irene began, sitting up rigidly inher rocker. "Ain't got no mo' to say 'bout it!" he snapped,marching out the front door. When Matilda found out about it,she got so angry that Irene had to restrain her from confrontingTorn. "Dat boy's pappy got white blood in 'im!" she shouted.Suddenly wincing, then clutching at her chest, Matilda lurched

against a table. Irene caught her as she toppled to the floor. "0my God!" she moaned, her face contorted with pain. "SweetJesus! 0 Lord, no!" Her eyelids fluttered and closed."Grandmammy!" Irene shouted, seizing her around theshoulders. "Grandmammy!" She put her head to her chest andlistened. There was still a heartbeat. But two days later itstopped. Chicken George didn't cry. But there was somethingheartbreaking about his stoniness, the deadness in his eyes.From that day on, no one could remember him ever smilingagain or saying a civil word to anyone. He and Matilda hadnever seemed really close--but when she died, somehow hisown warmth died with her. And he began to shrink, dry up,grow old almost overnight--not turning feeble and weak-minded but hard and mean-tempered. Refusing to liveanymore in the cabin he had shared with Matilda, he began toroost with one son or daughter after another until both he andthey were fed up, when old gray-headed Chicken Georgemoved on. When he wasn't complaining, he'd usually sit on theporch in the rocker he took along with him and stare fiercelyout across the fields for hours at a time. He had just turnedeighty-three--having cantankerously refused to touch a bite ofthe birthday cake that was baked for him--and was sitting latein the winter of 1890 in front of the fire at his eldestgranddaughter Maria Jane's house. She had ordered him tosit still and rest his bad leg while she hurried out to theadjacent field with her husband's lunch. When she returned asquickly as she could, she found him lying on the hearth, wherehe'd dragged himself after falling into the fire. Maria Jane'sscreams brought her husband running. The derby hat, scarf,

and sweater were smoldering, and Chicken George wasburned horribly from his head to his waist. Late that night hedied. Nearly everyone black in Henning attended his funeral,dozens of them his children, grandchildren, or great-grandchildren. Standing there by the grave as he was loweredinto the ground beside Matilda, his son L'il George leaned toVirgil and whispered: "Pappy so tough 'speck he wouldn't o'never died natural." Virgil turned and looked sadly at hisbrother. "I loved 'im," he said quietly. "You too, an' all us." "Co'se we did," said L'il George. "Nobody couldn't stan' livin'wid de cockadoodlin' of' rascal, an' look now at ever' bodysnufflin' 'cause he gone!"

CHAPTER 116

"Mama!" Cynthia breathlessly exclaimed to Irene, "Will Palmerdone axed to walk me home from church nex' Sun- day!" "Heain't 'zackly one to rush into things, is he? Leas' two years Iseen 'im watchin' you in church every Sunday"--said Irene."Who?" Torn asked. "Will Palmer! Is it awright for him to walkher home?" After a while Torn Murray said drily, "I think 'boutit." Cynthia went off looking as if she had been stabbed,leaving Irene studying her husband's face. "Torn, ain't nobodygood 'enough fo' yo' gals? Anybody in town know dat youngWill jes' 'bout run de lumber company fo' datof' stay- drunk Mr.James. Folks all over Henning seen 'im unload de lumber offde freight cars his self sell it an' deliver it his self den write outde bills, colleck de money, an' 'posit it inde bank his self Evendo different 1'il carpenter-in' de customers needs an' ax

nothin' fo' it. An' wid all dat fo' whatever 1'il he make, he don'tnever speak a hard word 'against of' Mr. James. " "De way Isees it, doin' his. job an' mindin' his own business," said TornMurray. "I sees 'im in church, too, half de gals in dere battin'dey eyes at 'im." " Co'se dey is! " said Irene, " 'cause he bebes' catch in Henning. But he ain't never yet ax to walk nonehome. " "How 'bout dat Lula Carter he gave dem flowers to?"Astonished that Torn even knew, Irene said, "Dat more'n ayear ago, Torn, an' if you knows so much, reckon you alsoknow she carried on like sich a fool after dat, fawnin' roun' 'imlike a shadow, he finally quit talkin' to her at all!" "He done itonce, he could do it ag'in." "Not to Cynthia, he ain't, not muchsense as she got, 'long wid being' pretty an' well raised. Shedone tol' me much as she like Will, she ain't never let on to 'imhow she feel! Mos' she ever say is howdy an' smile back whenhe do. Don't care how many gals buzzin' after 'im, you seewho he buzzin' after!" "See you got everythin' worked out,"said Torn.

Irene pleaded,

"Aw, Torn, let 'im walk de child home. Leas' let 'em gittogedder. Dey stays togedder's up to dem." "An' me!" Tornsaid sternly. He did not want to seem too easy to any of hisdaughters, his wife either. Above all, he did not want Ireneaware that before now he had seen the potential, hadweighed it, and thoroughly approved of Will Palmer if the timecame. Having watched young Will since he had come toHenning, Torn privately had often wished that either of his two

sons showed half of young Will's gumption. In fact, thedeviously serious, ambitious, highly capable Will Palmerreminded Torn of a younger himself. No one had expected thatthe courtship would develop so fast. Ten months later, in the"company room" of Torn and Irene's new four-room house. Willproposed to Cynthia, who barely could restrain her "Yes!" untilhe had finished speaking. The third Sunday from then, theywere married in the New Hope CME Church in a ceremonyattended by well over two hundred people, about half of whomhad come from North Carolina on the wagon train, and theirchildren--and who now lived on farms scattered throughoutLauderdale County. Will with his own hands and tools builttheir small home where, a year later, in 1894, their first child, ason, was born, who died within a few days. By now WillPalmer never took off a weekday from work, the lumbercompany hard-drinking owner being so far gone into the bottlethat Will practically was running the entire business. Goingover the company's books one stormy late Friday afternoon.Will discovered a bank payment overdue that day at People'sBank. He rode his horse eight miles through drenching rainsto knock at the bank president's back porch. "Mr. Vaughan,"he said, "this payment slipped Mr. James' mind, and I know hewouldn't want to keep you waitin' till Monday."

Invited inside to dry, he said,

"No, thank you, sir, Cynthia'11 be wonderin' where I am." Andwishing the banker a good night, he rode back off in the rain.The banker, deeply impressed, told the incident all over town.

In the fall of 1893, someone came and told Will he waswanted at the bank. Puzzled throughout the few minutes' walkthere. Will found inside, waiting for him, Henning's ten leadingwhite businessmen, all seeming red-faced and embarrassed.Banker Vaughan explained, speaking rapidly, that the lumbercompany's owner had declared bankruptcy, with plans tomove elsewhere with his family. "Henning needs the lumbercompany," said the banker. "All of us you see here have beenweeks discussing it, and we can't think of anyone better to runit than you. Will. We've agreed to cosign a note to pay off thecompany's debts for you to take over as the new owner."Tears trickling down his cheeks. Will Palmer walkedwordlessly along the line of white men. As he double- grippedand squeezed each hand, then that man hurriedly signed thenote and even more quickly left with tears in his own eyes.When they had all gone, Will wrung the banker's hand for along moment. "Mr. Vaughan. I've got one more favor to ask.Would you take half of my savings and make out a check forMr. James, without his ever knowing where it came from?"Within a year. Will's credo--to provide the best possible goodsand service for the lowest possible price--was drawingcustomers even from adjoining towns, and wagon loads ofpeople, mostly black, were coming from as far away asMemphis--forty-eight miles to the South--to see with their owneyes western Tennessee's first black-owned business of itskind, where Cynthia had hung ruffled, starched curtains in thewindows and Will had painted the sign on the front: "W. E.PALMER LUMBER COMPANY."

CHAPTER 117

Cynthia's and Will's prayers were answered in 1895 with thebirth of the sound, healthy girl whom they named BerthaGeorge--the"George" after Will's father. Cynthia insisted onassembling a houseful of family before whom she told thegurgling infant the whole story back to the African, Kunta Kinte,just as Torn Murray had told it to all of his children at intervalswhen they had been young. Will Palmer respected Cynthia'sdevotion to her ancestors' memory, but it irritated his owndeep pride to be considered as having married into Cynthia'sfamily rather than the other way around. It was probably why hebegan to monopolize little Bertha even before she could walk.Every morning he carried her about before he left for work.Every night he tucked her into the little crib that he had madewith his hands for her. By the time Bertha was five, the rest ofthe family and much of the town's black community quotedCynthia and speaking for themselves echoed her opinion,"Will Palmer jes' spilin' dat gal to pieces!" He had arrangedthat she had credit at every Henning store that sold candy, andhe paid the bill each month, though he made her keep anaccounting, which he solemnly checked "to teach herbusiness." As her fifteenth-birthday present, when he openeda Sears, Roebuck mail-order account in her name, the peopleshook and wagged their heads in mingled astonishment,dismay--and pride: "All dat young' un got to do is pick whatshe like out'n dat pitcher catalogue, an' write off de orderblank, an' firs' thing you knows dem Sears, Roebuck whitefolks way yonder in Chicago done sent it--seen it wid dese

here eyes. an' her daddy pays fo' it. you hearin' what I'm tellin'you, chile? Anythin' dat Bertha want! " Later that same year.Will hired a teacher to come weekly all the way from Memphisto give Bertha piano lessons. She was a gifted pupil, andbefore long was playing for the choir in the New Hope ColoredMethodist Episcopal Church, of which Will was the seniortrustee and Cynthia was the perennial president of theStewardess Board. When Bertha finished the local eighthgrade in June of 1909, there was no question that she wouldbe leaving Henning to attend the CME Church-supportedLane Institute thirty miles to the east in Jackson, Tennessee,which went from ninth grade through two years of college."Gal, jes' no way you can know... what it mean, you being disfam'ly's firs' one headin' fo' a college"--"Maw, if I can ever gityou and Paw to please quit saying such as 'dis' and 'fo'! Ikeep telling you they're pronounced 'this' and 'for'! Anyway,isn't that why colleges are there? For people to go to?"Cynthia wept when she got alone with her husband. "LawdGod he'p us wider. Will, she jes' don't unnerstan'." "Maybe shebest don't," he tried to console. "I jes' know I'll draw my lastbreath seem' she have better chance'n us did." As was onlyexpected of her. Bertha achieved consistently high grades--studying pedagogy, to become a teacher--and she bothplayed the piano and sang in the school choir. On one of hertwo weekend visits back home every month, she persuadedher father to have a sign painted on both doors of his deliverytruck: "Henning 121--Your Lumber Number." Telephonesrecently had come to Henning; it was typical of Bertha's readywit, which got quoted often around town. On later visits. Bertha

began to speak about a young man whom she had met in thecollege choir, his name, Simon Alexander Haley, and he wasfrom a town named Savannah, Tennessee. Being very poor,she said, he was working at as many as four odd jobs at thetime in order to stay in school, where he was studyingagriculture. When Bertha continued to talk about him, a yearlater, in 1913, Will and Cynthia suggested that she invite himto visit with them in Henning, so they could appraise him inperson. The New Hope CME Church was packed on theSunday it had been circulated that "Bertha's beau fromcollege" would be in attendance. He arrived under thesearching scrutiny not only of Will and Cynthia Palmer, butalso of the total black community. But he seemed a very self-assured young man. After singing a baritone solo, "In theGarden," accompanied by Bertha at the piano, he talkedeasily with all who crowded about him later out in thechurchyard, he looked everyone squarely in the eyes, firmlygripping all of the men's hands, and tipping his hat to all of theladies. Bertha and her Simon Alexander Haley--his full name--returned to Lane College together on the bus that evening. Noone had a thing to say against him--publicly--in the ensuingcommunity discussions. Privately, though, some queasyuncertainties were expressed concerning his very nearly high-yaller complexion. (He had told dark brown Bertha inconfidence that his parents, former slaves, had both told himof having slave mothers and Irish white fathers, paternally anoverseer named Jim Baugh, of whom little else was known,and maternally a Marion County, Alabama, plantation scionand later Civil War colonel named James Jackson. But it was

agreed by all that he sang well; that he seemed to have beenwell raised; and he showed no signs of trying to put on airsjust because he was educated. Haley landed a summer'swork as a Pullman porter, saving every possible penny toenable his transferring to the four-year AT College inGreensboro, North Carolina, exchanging weekly letters withBertha. When World War I came, he and all other males intheir senior class enlisted en masse in the U. S. Army, andbefore long his letters to Bertha came from France, where inthe Argonne Forest in 1918, he was gassed. After treatmentfor several months in a hospital overseas, he was returnedhome to convalesce, and in 1919, fully recovered, he cameagain to Henning and he and Bertha announced theirengagement. Their wedding in the New Hope CME Church inthe summer of 1920 was Henning's first social event attendedby both black and white--not only since Will Palmer by nowwas among the town's most prominent citizens, but alsobecause in her own right the accomplished, irrepressibleBertha was someone whom all in Henning regarded withpride. The reception was held on the wide, sloping lawn of thePalmers' brand-new home of ten rooms, including a musicparlor and a library. A banquet of food was served; morepresents were heaped than were normally seen at an averagethree weddings; there was even a recital by the full LaneCollege Choir--in whose ranks the ecstatic newlyweds hadmet--which had come in the bus that Will Palmer hadchartered from Jackson. Late that day, Henning's little railroaddepot was overrun as Simon and Bertha boarded the IllinoisCentral train that took them through the night to Chicago,

where they changed onto another bound for somewherecalled Ithaca, New York. Simon was going to study for hismaster's degree in agriculture at some "Cornell University,"and Bertha would be enrolling at a nearby"IthacaConservatory of Music." For about nine months. Bertha wrotehome regularly, reporting their exciting experiences so faraway and telling how happy they were with each other. Butthen, in the early summer of 1921, Bertha's letters began toarrive less and less often, until finally Cynthia and Will grewdeeply concerned that something was wrong that Berthawasn't telling them about. Will gave Cynthia five hundreddollars to send to Bertha, telling Bertha to use it however theymight need it, without mentioning it to Simon. But theirdaughter's letters came even more seldom, until by lateAugust, Cynthia told Will and their closest friends that she wasgoing to New York herself to find out what was the matter. Twodays before Cynthia was due to leave, a midnight knocking atthe front door awakened them in alarm. Cynthia was first outof bed, snatching on her robe, with Will close behind. At theirbedroom's doorway, she could see through the living room'sglass-paneled French doors the moonlit silhouettes of Berthaand Simon on the front porch. Cynthia went shrieking andbounding to snatch open the door.

Bertha said calmly,

"Sorry we didn't write. We wanted to bring you a surprisepresent" She handed to Cynthia the blanketed bundle in herarms. Her heart pounding, and with Will gazing incredulously

over her shoulder, Cynthia pulled back the blanket's top fold--revealing a round brown "face.... The baby boy, six weeks old,was me.

CHAPTER 118

I used to be told later by Dad, laughing in recalling that night ofbig surprise as he loved to do, "Seemed I'd nearly lost a son alittle while there"--Dad declared Grandpa Will Palmer walkedaround and lifted me out of Grandma's arms "and without aword took you out to the yard and around the rear of the housesomewhere. Why, he must have stayed gone I believe as longas hal fan hour" before returning, "with Cynthia, Bertha, or mesaying not a word to him of it, either, I guess for one reasonjust because he was Will Palmer, and the other thing was all ofus knew how badly for many years he'd wanted to have a sonto raise--I guess in your being Bertha's boy, you'd become it."After a week or so. Dad went back alone to Ithaca, leavingMama and me in Henning; they had decided it would be betterwhile he finished pushing for his master's degree. Grandpaand Grandma proceeded to just about adopt me as their own-especially Grandpa. Even before I could talk. Grandma wouldsay years later, he would carry me in his arms down to thelumber company, where he built a crib to put me in while hetook care of business. After I had learned to walk, we wouldgo together downtown, me taking three steps to each of his,my small fist tightly grasped about his extended left forefinger.Looming over me like a black, tall, strong tree. Grandpa wouldstop and chat with people we met along the way. Grandpa

taught me to look anyone right in their eyes, to speak to themclearly and politely. Sometimes people exclaimed how wellraised I was and how fine I was growing up. "Well, I guess helldo," Grandpa would respond. Down at the W. E. PalmerLumber Company, he would let me play around among the bigstacks of oak, cedar, pine, and hickory, all in planks ofdifferent lengths and widths, and with their mingling of goodsmells, and I would imagine myself involved in all kinds ofexciting adventures, almost always in faraway times or places.And sometimes Grandpa would let me sit in his office in hisbig, high backed swivel chair with his green-visored eyeshade on my head, swiveling around and back and forth untilI'd get so dizzy my head seemed to keep going after I'dstopped. I enjoyed myself anywhere I ever went with Grandpa.Then, when I was going on five, he died. I was so hystericalthat Dr. Dillard had to give me a glass of some- think milky tomake me sleep that night. But before I did, I rememberdrowsily glimpsing many people, black and white, gathering ina ragged line along the dusty road that ran nearby the house,all of their heads bowed, the women wearing head scarvesthe men holding their hats in their hands. For the next severaldays, it seemed to me as if everybody in the world was crying.Dad, who had by now nearly completed his master's thesis,came home from Cornell to take over the lumber mill, asMama started teaching in our local school. Having lovedGrandpa so deeply myself, and having seen Grandma'sterrible grief, she and I soon became extremely close, andthere weren't many places she went that she didn't take mealong with her. I suppose it was somehow to try to fill the void

of Grandpa's absence that now during each springtime.Grandma began to invite various ones among the Murrayfamily female relatives to spend some, if not all, of thesummers with us. Averaging in her age range, the late fortiesand early fifties, they came from exotic-sounding places tome, such as Dyersburg, Tennessee; Inkster, Michigan; St.Louis and Kansas City--and they had names like Aunt Plus,Aunt Liz, Aunt Till, Aunt Viney, and Cousin Georgia. With thesupper dishes washed, they all would go out on the front porchand sit in cane-bottomed rocking chairs, and I would beamong them and sort of scrunch myself down behind thewhite-painted rocker holding Grandma. The time would be justabout as the dusk was deepening into the night, with thelightning bugs flickering on and off around the honeysucklevines, and every evening I can remember, unless there wassome local priority gossip, always they would talk about thesame things--snatches and patches of what later I'd learn wasthe long, cumulative family narrative that had been passeddown across the generations. It was the talk, I knew, thatalways had generated my only memories of any open frictionbetween Mama and Grandma. Grandma would get on thatsubject sometimes without her older women summer gueststhere, and Mama always before long would abruptly snapsomething like, "Oh, Maw, I wish you'd stop all that old-timeyslavery stuff, it's entirely embarrassing!" Grandma would snapright back, "If you don't care who and where you come from,well, / does!" And they might go around avoiding speaking toeach other for a whole day, maybe even longer. But anyway, Iknow I gained my initial impression that whatever Grandma

and the other graying ladies talked about was something thatwent a very long way back when one or another of them wouldbe recalling something of girlhood and suddenly thrusting afinger down toward me say, "I wasn't any bigger'n this hereyoung' un The very idea that anyone as old and wrinkled asthey had once been my age strained my comprehension. Butas I say, it was this that caused me to realize that the thingsthey were discussing must have happened a very long timeago. Being just a little boy, I couldn't really follow most of whatthey said. I didn't know what an "of' massa" or an "of' missis"was; I didn't know what a "plantation" was, though it seemedsomething resembling a farm. But slowly, from hearing thestories each passing summer, I began to recognize frequentlyrepeated names among the people / they talked about and toremember things they told about those people. The farthest-back person they ever talked about was a man they called"the African," whom they always said had been brought to thiscountry on a ship to some place that they pronounced " "Naplis. " They said he was bought off this ship by a "MassaJohn Waller," who had a plantation in a place called"Spotsylvania County, Virginia." They would tell how theAfrican kept trying to escape, and how on the fourth effort hehad the misfortune to be captured by two white professionalslave catchers, who apparently decided to make an exampleof him. This African was given the choice either of beingcastrated or having a foot cut off, and"--thanks to Jesus, or wewouldn't be here tellin' it"--the African chose his foot. I couldn'tfigure out why white folks would do anything as mean and low-down as that. But this African's life, the old ladies said, had

been saved by Massa John's brother, a Dr. William Waller,who was so mad about the entirely unnecessary maiming thathe bought the African for his own plantation. Though now theAfrican was crippled, he could do limited work, and the doctorassigned him in the vegetable garden. That was how ithappened that this particular African was kept on oneplantation for quite a long time--in a time when slaves,especially male slaves, were sold back and forth so much thatslave children grew up often without even knowledge of whotheir parents were. Grandma and the others said that Africansfresh off slave ships were given some name by their mass asIn this particular African's case the name was "Toby." But theysaid anytime any of the other slaves called him that, he wouldstrenuously rebuff them, declaring that his name was "Kin-tay."Hobbling about, doing his gardening work, then laterbecoming his massa's buggy-driver, "Toby"--or "Kin-tay"--metand eventually mated with a woman slave there whomGrandma and the other ladies called "Bell, the big- housecook." They had a little girl who was given the name "Kizzy."When she was around four to five years old, her African fatherbegan to take her by the hand and lead her around, wheneverhe got the chance, pointing out different things to her andrepeating to her their names in his own native tongue. Hewould point at a guitar, for example, and say something thatsounded like "ko." Or he would point at the river that ran nearthe plantation--actually the Mattaponi River--and say whatsounded like "Kamby Bolongo," along with many more thingsand sounds. As Kizzy grew older, and her African fatherlearned English better, he began telling her stories about

himself, his people, and his homeland--and how he was takenaway from it. He said that he had been out in the forest not farfrom his village, chopping wood to make a drum, when he hadbeen surprised by four men, overwhelmed, and kidnaped intoslavery. When Kizzy was sixteen years old. Grandma Palmerand the other Murray family ladies said, she was sold away toa new master named Torn Lea, who owned a smallerplantation in North Carolina. And it was on this plantation thatKizzy gave birth to a boy, whose father was Torn Lea, whogave the boy the name of George. When George got aroundfour or five years old, his mother began to tell him her Africanfather's sounds and stories, until he came to know them well.Then when George got to be the age of twelve, I learned thereon Grandma's front porch, he was apprenticed to an old"Uncle Mingo," who trained the master's fighting gamecocks,and by the mid-teens, the youth had earned such a reputationas a gamecock trainer that he'd been given by others thenickname he'd take to his grave: "Chicken George." ChickenGeorge when around eighteen met and mated with a slave girlnamed Matilda, who in time bore him eight children. Witheach new child's birth, said Grandma and the others. ChickenGeorge would gather his family within their slave cabin, tellingthem afresh about their African great-grandfather named "Kin-tay," who called a guitar a "ko," a river in Virginia "KambyBolongo," and other sounds for other things, and who hadsaid he was chopping wood to make a drum when he wascaptured into slavery. The eight children grew up, took mates,and had their own children. The fourth son, Torn, was ablacksmith when he was sold along with the rest of his family

to a "Massa Murray," who owned a tobacco plantation inAlamance County, North Carolina. There, Torn met and matedwith a half-Indian slave girl named Irene, who came from theplantation of a "Massa Holt," who owned a cotton mill. Ireneeventually also bore eight children, and with each new birth,Torn continued the tradition his father. Chicken Geofge, hadbegun, gathering his family around the hearth and telling themabout their African great-great-grandfather and all thosedescending from him. Of that second set of eight children, theyoungest was a little girl named Cynthia, who was two yearsold when her father, Torn, and grandfather. Chicken George,led a wagon train of recently freed slaves westward toHenning, Tennessee, where Cynthia met and at the age oftwenty- two married Will Palmer. When I had been thoroughlyimmersed in listening to accounts of all those people unseenwho had lived away back yonder, invariably it would astonishme when the long narrative finally got down to Cynthia... andthere I sat looking right at Grandma! As well as Aunt Viney,Aunt Matilda, and Aunt Liz, who had ridden right along withGrandma--her older sisters--in the wagon train. I was there atGrandma's in Henning until two younger brothers had beenborn, George in 1925, then Julius in 1929, Dad sold thelumber company for Grandma, and moved now into being aprofessor of agriculture with Mama and we three boys livingwherever he taught, the longest period being at AM College atNormal, Alabama, where I was in some class a morning in1931 and someone came with a message for me to hurryhome, and I did, hearing Dad's great wracking sobs as I burstinto the door. Mama--who had been sick off and on since we

had left Henning--lay in their bed, dying. She was thirty-six.Every summer, George, Julius, and I spent in Henning withGrandma. Noticeably something of her old spirit seemed tohave gone, along with both Grandpa and Mama. Peoplepassing would greet her in her white-painted rocker there onthe front porch, "Sister Cynthy, how's you doin'?" and shegenerally would answer them, "Jes' settin'"--After two years.Dad married again, to a colleague professor who was namedZeona Hatcher, from Columbus, Ohio, where she had gottenher master's degree at Ohio State University. She busiedherself with the further raising and training of we three rapidlygrowing boys, then she gave us a sister named Lois. I hadfinished a second year in college and at seventeen years ofage enlisted into the U. S. Coast Guard as a mess- boy whenWorld War II happened. On my cargo-ammunition ship plyingthe Southwest Pacific, I stumbled ontdt'the long road that hastaken me finally to the writing of this Roots. At sea sometimesas long as three months, our crew's really most incessantfighting wasn't of enemy aerial bomb ers or submarines, butour fighting of sheer boredom. At Dad's insistence, I'd learnedto type in high school, and my most precious shipboardpossession was my portable typewriter. I wrote letters toeveryone I could think of. And I read every book in the ship'ssmall library or that was owned and loaned by shipmates;from boyhood, I'd loved reading, especially stories ofadventure. Having read everything on board a third time, Iguess simply in frustration I decided I'd try writing somestories myself. The idea that one could roll a blank sheet ofpaper into a typewriter and write something on it that other

people would care to read challenged, intrigued, exhilaratedme--and does to this day. I don't know what else motivatedand sustained me through trying to write, every single night,seven nights a week--mailing off my efforts to magazines andcollecting literally hundreds of their rejection slips--across thenext eight years before my first story was bought. After thewar, with one or another editor accepting a story now or then,the U. S. Coast Guard's hierarchy created for me a newratmg"--journalist." Writing every hour I could, I got publishedmore; finally in 1959 at age thirty- seven, I'd been in theservice for twenty years, making me eligible to retire, which Idid, determined to try now for a new career as a full-timewriter. At first I sold some articles to men's adventuremagazines, mostly about historic maritime dramas, because Ilove the sea. Then Reader's Digest began giving meassignments to write mostly biographical stories of peoplewho'd had dramatic experiences or lived exciting lives. Then,in 1962, I happened to record a conversation with famous jazztrumpeter Miles Davis that became the first of the "PlayboyInterviews." Among my subsequent interview subjects was thethen Nation of Islam spokesman Malcolm X. A publisherreading the interview asked for a book portraying his life.Malcolm X asked me to work with him as his collaborator, andI did. The next year was mostly spent intensively interviewinghim, then the next year in actually writing The Autobiography ofMalcolm X, which, as he had predicted, he hadn't lived toread, for he was assassinated about two weeks after themanuscript was finished. Soon, a magazine sent me on anassignment to London. Between appointments, utterly

fascinated with a wealth of history everywhere, I missedscarcely a guided tour anywhere within London's area duringthe next several days. Poking about one day in the BritishMuseum, I found myself looking at something I'd heard ofvaguely: the Rosetta Stone. I don't know why, it just aboutentranced me. I got a book there in the museum library tolearn more about it. Discovered in the Nile Delta, I learned, thestone's face had chiseled into it three separate texts: one inknown Greek characters, the second in a then-unknown set ofcharacters, the third in the ancient hieroglyphics, which it hadbeen assumed no one ever would be able to translate. But aFrench scholar, Jean Champollion, successively matched,character for character, both the unknown text and thehieroglyphics with the known Greek text, and he offered athesis that the texts read the same. Essentially, he hadcracked the mystery of the previously undecipheredhieroglyphics in which much of mankind's earliest history wasrecorded. The key that had unlocked a door into the pastfascinated me. I seemed to feel it had some special personalsignificance, but I couldn't imagine what. It was on a planereturning to the United States when an idea hit me. Usinglanguage chiseled into stone, the French scholar haddeciphered a historic unknown by matching it with that whichwas known. That presented me a rough analogy: In the oralhistory that Grandma, Aunt Liz, Aunt Plus, Cousin Georgia,and the others had always told on the boyhood Henning frontporch, I had an unknown quotient in those strange words orsounds passed on by the African. I got to thinking about them:"Kin-lay," he had said, was his name. "Kb" he had called a

guitar. "Kamby Bolongo" he had called a river in Virginia.They were mostly sharp, angular sounds, with kpredominating. These sounds probably had undergone somechanges across the generations of being passed down, yetunquestionably they represented phonetic snatches ofwhatever was the specific tongue spoken by my Africanancestor who was a family legend. My plane from London wascircling to land at New York with me wondering: What specificAfrican tongue was it? Was there any way in the world thatmaybe I could find out?

CHAPTER 119

Now over thirty years later the sole surviving one of the oldladies who had talked the family narrative on the Henning frontporch was the youngest among them. Cousin GeorgiaAnderson. Grandma was gone, and all of the others too. In hereighties now. Cousin Georgia lived with her son and daughter,Floyd Anderson and Bea Neely, at 1200 Everett Avenue,Kansas City, Kansas. I hadn't seen her since my frequentvisits there of a few years before, then to offer what help Icould to my politically oriented brother, George. Successivelyout of the U. S. Army Air Force, Morehouse College, then theUniversity of Arkansas. Law School, George was hotlycampaigning to become a Kansas state senator. The night ofhis victory party, laughter nourished that actually why he'd wonwas... Cousin Georgia. Having repetitively heard hercampaign director son, Floyd, tell people of George's widelyrecognized integrity, our beloved gray, bent, feisty Cousin

Georgia had taken to the local sidewalks. Rapping herwalking cane at people's doors, she had thrust before theirstartled faces a picture of her grand nephew candidate,declaring, "Dat boy got mo' 'teggity clan you can shake a stickat!" Now I flew to Kansas City again, to see Cousin Georgia. Ithink that I will never quite get over her instant response when Iraised the subject of the family story. Wrinkled and ailing, shejerked upright in her bed, her excitement like boyhood front-porch echoes: "Yeah, boy, dat African say his name was "Kin-tay'!... He say de guitar a 'ko," de river "Kamby Bolongo," an'he was chopping' wood to make his self a drum when deycotched 'im! " Cousin Georgia became so emotionally full ofthe old family story that Floyd, Bea, and I had a time trying tocalm her down. I explained to her that I wanted to try to see ifthere was any way that I could possibly find where our "Kin-tay" had come from... which could reveal our ancestral tribe."You go 'head, boy!" exclaimed Cousin Georgia. "Yo' sweetgrandma an' all of 'em---dey up dere -watchin' you!" Thethought made me feel something like... My God!

CHAPTER 120

Soon after, I went to the National Archives in Washington, D.C. " and told a reading-room desk attendant that I wasinterested in Alamance County, North Carolina, censusrecords just after the Civil War. Rolls of microfilm weredelivered. I began turning film through the machine, feeling amounting sense of intrigue while viewing an endless parade ofnames recorded 'in that old-fashioned penmanship of different

1800s census takers. After several of the long microfilm rolls,tiring, suddenly in utter astonishment I found myself lookingdown there on: "Torn Murray, black, blacksmith--," "Irene-Murray, black, housewife"--. followed by the names ofGrandma's older sisters--most of whom I'd listened tocountless times on Grandma's front porch. "Elizabeth, age 6"--nobody in the world but my Great Aunt Liz! At the time of thatcensus, Grandma wasn't even born yet! It wasn't that I hadn'tbelieved the stories of Grandma and the rest of them. You justdidn't not believe my grandma. It was simply so uncannysitting staring at those names actually right there in official U.S. Government records. Then living in New York, I returned toWashington as often as I could manage it--searching in theNational Archives, in the Library of Congress, in theDaughters of the American Revolution Library. Wherever Iwas, whenever black library attendants perceived the natureof my search, documents I'd requested would reach me with amiraculous speed. From one or another source during 1966, Iwas able to document at least the highlights of the cherishedfamily story; I would have given anything to be able to tellGrandma--then I would remember what Cousin Georgia hadsaid, that she, all of them, were "up there watchin'." Now thething was where, what, how could I pursue those strangephonetic sounds that it was always said our African ancestorhad spoken. It seemed obvious that I had to reach as wide arange of actual Africans as I possibly could, simply becauseso many different tribal tongues are spoken in Africa. There inNew York City, I began doing what seemed logical: I beganarriving at the United Nations around quitting time; the

elevators were spilling out people who were thronging throughthe lobby on their way home. It wasn't hard to spot theAfricans, and every one I was able to stop, I'd tell my soundsto. Within a couple of weeks, I guess I had stopped about twodozen Africans, each of whom had given me a quick look, aquick listen, and then took off. I can't say I blame them--metrying to communicate some African sounds in a Tennesseeaccent. Increasingly frustrated, I had a long talk with GeorgeSims, with whom I'd grown up in Henning, and who is a masterresearcher. After a few days, George brought me a list ofabout a dozen people academically renowned for theirknowledge of African linguistics. One whose backgroundintrigued me quickly was a Belgian, Dr. Jan Vansina. Afterstudy at the University of London's School of African andOriental Studies, he had done his early work living in Africanvillages and written a book called La Tradition Orale .1telephoned Dr. Vansina where he now taught at the Universityof Wisconsin, and he gave me an appointment to see him. Itwas a Wednesday morning that I flew to Madison, Wisconsin,motivated by my intense curiosity about some strangephonetic sounds... and with no dream in this world of what wasabout to start happening.... That evening in the Vansinas' livingroom, I told him every syllable I could remember of the familynarrative heard since little boyhood--recently buttressed byCousin Georgia in Kansas City. Dr. Vansina, after listeningintently throughout, then began asking me questions. Being anoral historian, he was particularly interested in the physicaltransmission of the narrative down across generations. Wetalked so late that he invited me to spend the night, and the

next morning Dr. Vansina, with a very serious expression onhis face, said, "I wanted to sleep on it. The ramifications ofphonetic sounds preserved down across your family'sgenerations can be immense." He said that he had been onthe phone with a colleague Africanist, Dr. Philip Curtin; theyboth felt certain that the sounds I'd conveyed to him were fromthe"Mandinka" tongue. I'd never heard that word; he told methat it was the language spoken by the Mandingo people.Then he guess translated certain of the sounds. One of themprobably meant cow or cattle; another probably meant thebaobab tree, generic in West Africa. The word ko, he said,could refer to the kora, one of the Mandingo people's oldeststringed instruments, made of a halved large dried gourdcovered with goatskin, with a long neck, and twenty-onestrings with a bridge. An enslaved Mandingo might relate thekora visually to some among the types of stringed instrumentsthat U. S. slaves had. The most involved sound I had heardand brought was Kamby Bolongo, my ancestor's sound to hisdaughter Kizzy as he had pointed to the Mattaponi River inSpotsylvania County, Virginia. Dr. Vansina said that withoutquestion, bolongo meant, in the Mandinka tongue, a movingwater, as a river; preceded by "Kamby," it could indicate theGambia River. I'd never heard of it. An incident happened thatwould build my feeling-especially as more uncanny thingsoccurred--that, yes, they were up there watchin'... I was askedto speak at a seminar held at Utica College, Utica, New York.Walking down a hallway with the professor who had invitedme, I said I'd just flown in from Washington and why I'd beenthere. "The Gambia? If I'm not mistaken, someone mentioned

recently that an outstanding student from that country is over atHamilton." The old, distinguished Hamilton College wasmaybe a half hour's drive away, in Clinton, New York. Before Icould finish asking, a Professor Charles Todd said, "You'retalking about Ebou Manga." Consulting a course roster, hetold me where I could find him in an agricultural economicsclass. Ebou Manga was small of build, with careful eyes, areserved manner, and black as soot. He tentatively confirmedmy sounds, clearly startled to have heard me utter ing them.Was Mandinka his home tongue? "No, although I am familiarwith it." He was a Wolof, he said. In his dormitory room, I toldhim about my quest. We left for The Gambia at the end of thefollowing week. Arriving in Dakar, Senegal, the next morning,we caught a light plane to small Yundum Airport in TheGambia. In a passenger van, we rode into the capital city ofBanjul (then Bathurst. Ebou and his father, Alhaji Manga--Gambians are mostly Moslem--assembled a small group ofmen knowledgeable in their small country's history, who metwith me in the lounge of the Atlantic Hotel. As I had told Dr.Vansina in Wisconsin, I told these men the family narrative thathad come down across the generations. I told them in areverse progression, backward from Grandma through Torn,Chicken George, then Kizzy saying how her African fatherinsisted to other slaves that his name was "Kin-tay," andrepetitively told her phonetic sounds identifying various things,along with stories such as that he had been attacked andseized while not far from his village, chopping wood. When Ihad finished, they said almost with wry amusement, "Well, ofcourse "Kamby Bolongo' would mean Gambia River; anyone

would know that." I told them hotly that no, a great manypeople wouldn't know it! Then they showed a much greaterinterest that my 1760s ancestor had insisted his name was"Kin-tay." "Our country's oldest villages tend to be named forthe families that settled those villages centuries ago," theysaid. Sending for a map, pointing, they said, "Look, here isthe village of KinteKundah. And not too far from it, the villageof KinteKundah JannehYa." Then they told me something ofwhich I'd never have dreamed: of very old men, called griots,still to be found in the older back-country villages, men whowere in effect living, walking archives of oral history. A seniorgriot would be a man usually in his late sixties or earlyseventies; below him would be progressively younger griots--and apprenticing boys, so a boy would be exposed to thosegriots' particular line of narrative for forty or fifty years beforehe could qualify as a senior griot, who told on specialoccasions the centuries-old histories of villages, of clans, offamilies, of great heroes. Throughout the whole of black Africasuch oral chronicles had been handed down since the time ofthe ancient forefathers, I was informed, and there were certainlegendary griots who could narrate facets of African historyliterally for as long as three days without ever repeatingthemselves. Seeing how astounded I was, these Gambianmen reminded me that every living person ancestrally goesback to some time and some place where no writing existed;and then human memories and mouths and ears were the onlyways those human beings could store and relay information.They said that we who live in the Western culture are soconditioned to the "crutch of print" that few among us

comprehend what a trained memory is capable of. Since myforefather had said his name was "Kin-lay"--properly spelled"Kinte," they said--and since the Kinte clan was old and wellknown in The Gambia, they promised to do what they could tofind a griot who might be able to assist my search. Back in theUnited States, I began devouring books on African history. Itgrew quickly into some kind of obsession to correct myignorance concerning the earth's second- largest continent. Itembarrasses me to this day that up to then my images aboutAfrica had been largely derived or inferred from Tarzanmovies and my very little authentic knowledge had come fromonly occasional leafings through the National Geographic. Allof a sudden now, after reading all day, I'd sit on the edge of mybed at night studying a map of Africa, memorizing the differentcountries' relative positions and the principal waters whereslave ships had operated. After some weeks, a registeredletter came from The Gambia; it suggested that whenpossible, I should come back. But by now I was stony broke-especially because I'd been investing very little of my time inwriting. Once at a Reader's Digest lawn party, cofounder Mrs.DeWitt Wallace had told me how much she liked an"Unforgettable Character" I had written--about a tough oldseadog cook who had once been my boss in the U. S. CoastGuard--and before leaving, Mrs. Wallace volunteered that Ishould let her know if I ever needed some help. Now I wrote toMrs. Wallace a rather embarrassed letter, briefly telling her thecompulsive quest I'd gotten myself into. She asked someeditors to meet with me and see what they felt, and invited tolunch with them, I talked about nonstop for nearly three hours.

Shortly afterward, a letter told me that the Reader's Digestwould provide me with a three-hundred-dollar monthly checkfor one year, and plus that--my really vital need"--reasonablenecessary travel expenses." I again visited Cousin Georgia inKansas City--some- thing had urged me to do so, and I foundher quite ill. But she was thrilled to hear both what I hadlearned and what I hoped to learn. She wished me Godspeed,and I flew then to Africa. The same men with whom I hadpreviously talked told me now in a rather matter-of-factmanner that they had caused word to be put out in the backcountry, and that a griot very knowledgeable of the Kinte clanhad indeed been found--his name, they said, was "KebbaKanji Fofana." I was ready to have a fit. "Where is he?" Theylooked at me oddly: "He's in his village." I discovered that if Iintended to see this griot, I was going to have to do somethingI'd never have dreamed I'd ever be doing--organizing whatseemed, at least to me then, a kind of mini safari It took methree days of negotiating through unaccustomed endlessAfrican palaver finally to hire a launch to get upriver; to rent alorry and a Land Rover to take supplies by a roundabout landroute; to hire finally a total of fourteen people, including threeinterpreters and four musicians, who had told me that the oldgriots in the back country wouldn't talk without music in thebackground. In the launch Baddibu, vibrating up the wide, swift"Kamby Bolongo," I felt queasily, uncomfortably alien. Did theyall have me appraised as merely another pith helmet? Finallyahead was James Island, for two centuries the site of a fortover which England and France waged war back and forth forthe ideal vantage point to trade in slaves. Asking if we might

land there awhile, I trudged amid the crumbling ruins yetguarded by ghostly cannon. Picturing in my mind the kinds ofatrocities that would have happened there, I felt as if I wouldlike to go flailing an ax back through that facet of black Africa'shistory. Without luck I tried to find for myself some symbolremnant of an ancient chain, but I took a chunk of mortar and abrick. In the next minutes before we returned to the Baddibu, Ijust gazed up and down that river that my ancestor had namedfor his daughter far across the Atlantic Ocean in SpotsyivaniaCounty, Virginia. Then we went on, and upon arriving at a littlevillage called Albreda, we put ashore, our destination now onfoot the yet smaller village of Juffure, where the men had beentold that this griot lived. There is an expression called "thepeak experience"--that which emotionally, nothing in your lifeever transcends. I've had mine, that first day in the backcountry of black West Africa. When we got within sight ofJuffure, the children who were playing outside gave the alert,and the people came nocking from their huts. It's a village ofonly about seventy people. Like most back-country villages, itwas still very much as it was two hundred years ago, with itscircular mud houses and their conical thatched roofs. Amongthe people as they gathered was a small man wearing an off-white robe, a pillbox hat over an aquiline-featured black face,and about him was an aura of "somebodiness" until I knew hewas the man we had come to see and hear. As the threeinterpreters left our party to converge upon him, the seventy-odd other villagers gathered closely around me, in a kind ofhorseshoe pattern, three or four deep all around; had I stuckout my arms, my fingers would have touched the nearest ones

on either side. They were all staring at me. The eyes justraked me. Their foreheads were furrowed with their veryintensity of staring. A kind of visceral surging or a churningsensation started up deep inside me; bewildered, I waswondering what on earth was this... then in a little while it wasrather as if some full- gale force of realization rolled in on me:Many times in my life I had been among crowds of people, butnever where every one was jet black! Rocked emotionally, myeyes dropped downward as we tend to do when we'reuncertain, insecure, and my glance fell upon my own hands'brown complexion. This time more quickly than before, andeven harder, another gale- force emotion hit me: I felt myselfsome variety of a hybrid. I felt somehow impure among thepure; it was a terribly shaming feeling. About then, abruptly theold man left the interpreters. The people immediately also leftme now to go crowding about him. One of my interpreterscame up quickly and whispered in my ear, "They stare at youso much because they have never here seen a blackAmerican." When I grasped the significance, I believe that hitme harder than what had already happened. They hadn't beenlooking at me as an individual, but I represented in their eyesa symbol of the twenty-five millions of us black people whomthey had never seen, who lived beyond an ocean. The peoplewere clustered thickly about the old man, all of themintermittently flicking glances toward me as they talkedanimatedly in their Mandinka tongue. After a while, the oldman turned, walked briskly through the people, past my threeinterpreters, and right up to me. His eyes piercing into mine,seeming to feel I should understand his Mandinka, he

expressed what they had all decided they felt concerningthose unseen millions of us who lived in those places that hadbeen slave ships' destinations--and the translation came: "Wehave been told by the forefathers that there are many of usfrom this place who are in exile in that place called America--and in other places." The old man sat down, facing me, as thepeople hurriedly gathered behind him. Then he began torecite for me the ancestral history of the Kinte clan, as it hadbeen passed along orally down across centuries from theforefathers' time. It was not merely conversational, but moreas if a scroll were being read; for the still, silent villagers, "itwas clearly a formal occasion. The griot would speak,bending forward from the waist, his body rigid, his neck cordsstanding out, his words seeming almost physical objects. Aftera sentence or two, seeming to go limp, he would lean back,listening to an interpreter's translation. Spilling from the griot'shead came an incredibly complex Kinte clan lineage thatreached back across many generations: who married whom;who had what children; what children then married whom; thentheir offspring. It was all just unbelievable. I was struck not onlyby the profusion of details, but also by the narrative's biblicalstyle, something like: "--and so and-so took as a wife so-and-so, and begat.,. and begat... and begat... " He would nextname each begat's eventual spouse, or spouses, and theiraveragely numerous offspring, and so on. To date things thegriot linked them to events, such as "--in the year of the bigwater"--a flood "--he slew a water buffalo. " To determine thecalendar date, you'd have to find out when that particular floodoccurred. Simplifying to its essence the encyclopedic saga

that I was told, the griot said that the Kinte clan had begun inthe country called Old Mali. Then the Kinte men traditionallywere blacksmiths, "who had conquered fire," and the womenmostly were potters and weavers. In time, one branch of theclan moved into the country called Mauretania; and it was fromMauretania that one son of this clan, whose name wasKairaba Kunta Kinte--a mar about or holy man of the Moslemfaith--journeyed down into the country called The Gambia. Hewent first to a village called Pakali N'Ding, stayed there for awhile, then went to a village called Jiffarong, and then to thevillage of Juffure. In Juffure, Kairaba Kunta Kinte took his firstwife, a Mandinka maiden whose name was Sireng. And byher he begot two sons, whose names were Janneh andSaloum. Then he took a second wife; her name was Yaisa.And by Yaisa, he begot a son named Omoro. Those threesons grew up in Juffure until they became of age. Then theelder two, Janneh and Saloum, went away and founded a newvillage called Kinte-Kundah JannehYa. The youngest son,Omoro, stayed on in Juffure village until he had thirty rains--years--of age, then he took as his wife a Mandinka maidennamed Binta Kebba. And by Binta Kebba, roughly betweenthe years 1750 and 1760, Omoro Kinte begat four sons,whose names were, in the order of their birth, Kunta, Lamin,Suwadu, and Madi. The old griot had talked for nearly twohours up to then, and perhaps fifty times the narrative hadincluded some detail about someone whom he had named.Now after he had just named those four sons, again heappended a detail, and the interpreter translated--"About thetime the King's soldiers came"--another of the griot's time-

fixing references"--the oldest of these four sons, Kunta, wentaway from his village to chop wood... and he was never seenagain. .. " And the griot went on with his narrative. I sat as if Iwere carved of stone. My blood seemed to have congealed.This man whose lifetime had been in this back-country Africanvillage had no way in the world to know that he had justechoed what I had heard all through my boyhood years on mygrandma's front porch in Henning, Tennessee of an Africanwho always had insisted that his name was "Kin-tay"; who hadcalled a guitar a "Ao," and a river within the state of Virginia,"Kamby Bolongo"; and who had been kidnaped into slaverywhile not far from his village, chopping wood, to make himselfa drum. I managed to fumble from my duffel bag my basicnotebook, whose first pages containing grandma's story Ishowed to an interpreter. After briefly reading, clearlyastounded, he spoke rapidly while showing it to the old griot,who became agitated; he got up, exclaiming to the people,gesturing at my notebook in the interpreter's hands, and theyall got agitated. I don't remember hearing anyone giving anorder, I only recall becoming aware that those seventy-oddpeople had formed a wide human ring around me, movingcounterclockwise, chanting softly, loudly, softly; their bodiesclose together, they were lifting their knees high, stamping upreddish puffs of the dust.... The woman who broke from themoving circle was one of about a dozen whose infant childrenwere within cloth slings across their backs. Her jet-black facedeeply contorting, the woman came charging toward me, herbare feet slapping the earth, and snatching her baby free, shethrust it at me almost roughly, the gesture saying. "Take it!". .

and I did, clasping the baby to me. Then she snatched awayher baby; and another woman was thrusting her baby, thenanother, and another... until I had embraced probably a dozenbabies. I wouldn't learn until maybe a year later, from aHarvard University professor, Dr. Jerome Bruner, a scholar ofsuch matters, "You didn't know you were participating in oneof the oldest ceremonies of humankind, called "The laying onof hands'! In their way, they were telling you "Through this flesh,which is us, we are you, and you are us!" " Later the men ofJuffure took me into their mosque built of bamboo and thatch,and they prayed around me in Arabic. I remember thinking,down on my knees, "After I've found out where I came from, Ican't understand a word they're saying." Later the crux of theirprayer was translated for me: "Praise be to Allah for one longlost from us whom Allah has returned." Since we had come bythe river, I wanted to return by land. As I sat beside the wiryyoung Mandingo driver who was leaving dust pluming behindus on the hot, rough, pitted, back-country road toward Banjul,there came from somewhere into my head a staggeringawareness... that if any black American could be so blessedas I had been to know only a few ancestral clues--could he orshe know who was either the paternal or maternal Africanancestor or ancestors, and about where that ancestor livedwhen taken, and finally about when the ancestor was taken-then only those few clues might well see that black Ameri- canable to locate some wizened old black griot whose narrativecould reveal the black American's ancestral clan, perhapseven the very village. In my mind's eye, rather as if it weremistily being projected on a screen, I began envisioning

descriptions I had read of how collectively millions of ourancestors had been enslaved. Many thousands wereindividually kidnaped, as my own forebear Kunta had been,but into the millions had come awake screaming in the night,dashing out into the bedlam of raided villages, which wereoften in flames. The captured able survivors were linked neck-by- neck with thongs into processions called "coffles," whichwere sometimes as much as a mile in length. I envisioned themany dying, or left to die when they were too weak to continuethe torturous march toward the coast, and those who made itto the beach were greased, shaved, probed in every orifice,often branded with sizzling irons; I envisioned them beinglashed and dragged toward the longboats; their spasms ofscreaming and clawing with their hands into the beach, bitingup great choking mouthfuls of the sand in their desperationefforts for one last hold on the Africa that had been their home;I envisioned them shoved, beaten, jerked down into slaveships' stinking holds and chained onto shelves, often packedso tightly that they had to lie on their sides like spoons in adrawer. My mind reeled with it all as we approached another,much larger village. Staring ahead, I realized that word of whathad happened in Juffure must have left there well before I did.The driver slowing down, I could see this village's peoplethronging the road " " ahead; they were weaving, amid theircacophony of crying out something; I stood up in the Land-Rover, waving back as they seemed grudging to open a pathfor the Land-Rover. I guess we had moved a third of the waythrough the village when it suddenly registered in my brainwhat they were all crying out. the wizened, robed elders and

younger men, the mothers and the naked tar-black children,they were all waving up at me; their expressions buoyant,beaming, all were crying out together, "Meester Kinte!Meester Kintel" Let me tell you something: I am a man. A sobhit me somewhere around my ankles; it came surging upward,and flinging my hands over my face, I was just bawling, as Ihadn't since I was a baby. "Meester Kinte!" I just felt like I wasweeping for all of history's incredible atrocities againstfellowmen, which seems to be mankind's greatest flaw....Flying homeward from Dakar, I decided to write a book. Myown ancestors' would automatically also be a symbolic sagaof all African-descent people--who are without exception theseeds of someone like Kunta who was born and grew up insome black African village, someone who was captured andchained down in one of those slave ships that sailed themacross the same ocean, into some succession of plantations,and since then a struggle for freedom. In New York, my waitingtelephone messages included that in a Kansas City Hospital,our eighty-three year-old Cousin Georgia had died. Later,making a time-zone adjustment, I discovered that she passedaway within the very hour that I had walked into Juffure Village.I think that as the last of the old ladies who talked the story onGrandma's front porch, it had been her job to get me to Africa,then she went to join the others up there watchin'. In fact, I seestarting from my little boyhood a succession of relatedoccurrences that finally when they all joined have caused thisbook to exist. Grandma and the others drilled the family storyinto me. Then, purely by the fluke of circumstances, when Iwas cooking on U. S. Coast Guard ships at sea, I began the

long trial-and-error process of teaching myself to write. Andbecause I had come to love the sea, my early writing wasabout dramatic sea adventures gleaned out of yellowing oldmaritime records in. the U. S. Coast Guard's Archives, Icouldn't have acquired a much better preparation to meet themaritime research challenges that this book would bring.Always, Grandma and the other old ladies had said that a shipbrought the African to "somewhere called " Naplis. " I knewthey had to have been referring to Annapolis Maryland. So Ifelt now that I had to try to see if I could find what ship hadsailed to Annapolis from the Gambia River, with her humancargo including "the African," who would later insist that "Kin-lay" was his name, after his massa John Waller had given himthe name "Toby." I needed to determine a time around whichto focus search for this ship. Months earlier, in the village ofJuffure, the griot had timed Kunta Kinte's capture with "aboutthe time the King's soldiers came." Returning to London,midway during a second week of searching in records ofmovement assignments for British military units during the1760s, I finally found that "King's soldiers" had to refer to aunit called "Colonel O'Hare's forces." The unit was sent fromLondon in 1767 to guard the then British-operated Fort JamesSlave Fort in the Gambia River. The griot had been so correctthat I felt embarrassed that, in effect, I had been checkingbehind him. I went to Lloyds of London. In the office of anexecutive named Mr. R. C. E. Landers, it just poured out of mewhat I was trying to do. He got up from behind his desk and hesaid, "Young man, Lloyds of London will give you all of the helpthat we can." It was a blessing, for through Lloyds, doors

began to be opened for me to search among myriad oldEnglish maritime records. I can't remember any moreexhausting experience than my first six weeks of seeminglyendless, futile, day-after- day searching in an effort to isolateand then pin down a specific slave ship on a specific voyage,from within cartons upon cartons, files upon files of oldrecords of thousands of slave-ship triangular voyages amongEngland, Africa, and America. Along with my frustration, themore a rage grew within me the more I perceived to whatdegree the slave trade, in its time, was regarded by most ofits participants simply as another major industry, rather like thebuying, selling, and shipment of livestock today. Many recordsseemed never to have been opened after their original.storage apparently no one had felt occasion to go throughthem. I hadn't found a single ship bound from The Gambia toAnnapolis, when in the seventh week, one afternoon abouttwo-thirty, I was studying the 1,023rd sheet of slave- shiprecords, A wide rectangular sheet, it recorded the GambiaRiver entrances and exits of some thirty ships during the years1766 and 1767. Moving down the list, my eyes reached shipNo .18, and automatically scanned across its various dataheading entries. On July 5, 1767--the year "the King's soldierscame"--a ship named Lord Ligonier, her captain, a Thomas E.Davies, had sailed from the Gambia River, her destinationAnnapolis.. I don't know why, but oddly my internal emotionalreaction was delayed. I recall passively writing down theinformation, I turned in the records, and walked outside.Around the corner was a little tea shop. I went in and ordereda tea and cruller. Sitting, sipping my tea, it suddenly hit me that

quite possibly that ship brought Kunta Kinte! I still owe the ladyfor the tea and cruller. By telephone, Pan American confirmedtheir last seat available that day to New York. There simplywasn't time to go by the hotel where I was staying; I told a taxidriver, "Heathrow Airport!" Sleepless through that night'scrossing of the Atlantic I was seeing in my mind's eye thebook in the Library of Congress, Washington, B. C. " that I hadto get my hands on again. It had a little brown cover, withdarker brown letters--Shipping in the Port of Annapolis, byVaughan W. Brown. From New York, the Eastern Airlinesshuttle took me to Washington; I taxied to the Library ofCongress, ordered the book, almost yanked it from the youngman who brought it, and went riming through it. and there itwas, confirmation! The Lord Ligonier had cleared Annapolis'customs officials on September 29, 1767. Renting a car,speeding to Annapolis, I went to the Mary- land Hall ofRecords and asked archivist Mrs. Phebe Jacobsen for copiesof any local newspaper published around the first week ofOctober 1767. She soon produced a microfilm roll of theMaryland Gazette. At the projection machine, I was halfwaythrough the October 1 issue when I saw the advertisement inthe antique typeface: "JUST IMPORTED, In the ship LordLigonier, Capt. Davies, from the River Gambia, in Africa, andto be sold by the subscribers, in Annapolis, for cash, or goodbills of exchange on Wednesday the 7th of October next, ACargo of CHOICE HEALTHY SLAVES. The said ship willtake tobacco to London on liberty at 6s. Sterling per ton." Theadvertisement was signed by John Ridout and Daniel of St.Thos. Jenifer. On September 29, 1967, I felt I should be

nowhere else in the world except standing on a pier atAnnapolis--and I was; it was two hundred years to the dayafter the Lord Ligonier had landed. Staring out to seawardacross those waters over which my great-greatgreatgreat-grandfather had been brought, again I found myself weeping,The 1766-67 document compiled at James Fort in theGambia River had included that the Lord Ligonier had sailedwith 140 slaves in her hold. How many of them had livedthrough the voyage? Now on a second mission in theMaryland Hall of Records, I searched to find a record of theship's cargo listed upon her arrival in Annapolis--and found it,the following inventory, in old-fashioned script: 3,265"elephants' teeth," as ivory tusks were called; 3,700 pounds ofbeeswax; 800 pounds of raw cotton; 32 ounces of Gambiangold; and 98 "Negroes." Her loss of 42 Africans en route, oraround one third, was average for slaving voyages. I realizedby this time that Grandma, Aunt Liz, Aunt Plus, and CousinGeorgia also had been griots in their own ways. Mynotebooks contained their centuries-old story that our Africanhad been sold to "Massa John Waller," who had given him thename "Toby." During his fourth escape effort, when corneredhe had wounded with a rock one of the pair of professionalslave-catchers who caught him, and they had cut his foot off."Massa John's brother, Dr. William Waller," had saved theslave's life, then indignant at the maiming, had bought himfrom his brother. I dared to hope there might actually existsome kind of an actual documenting record. I went toRichmond, Virginia. I pored through microfilmed legal deedsfiled with Spotsylvania County, Virginia, after September

1767, when the Lord Ligonier had landed. In time, I found alengthy deed dated September 5, 1768, in which John Wallerand his wife Arm transferred to William Waller land andgoods, including 240 acres of farmland and then on thesecond page, "and also one Negro man slave named Toby."My God! In the twelve years since my visit to the RosettaStone, I have traveled halfa million miles, I suppose,searching, sifting, checking, cross checking finding out moreand more about the people whose respective oral historieshad proved not only to be correct, but even to connect on bothsides of the ocean. Finally I managed to tear away from yetmore researching in order to push myself into actually writingthis book. To develop Kunta Kinte's boyhood and youth tookme a long time, and having come to know him well, Ianguished upon his capture. When I began trying to write ofhis, or all of those Gambians' slave-ship crossing, finally I flewto Africa and canvassed among shipping lines to obtainpassage on the first possible freighter sailing from any s blackAfrican port directly to the United States. It turned out to be theFarrell Lines' African Star. When we put to sea, I explainedwhat I hoped to do that might help me write of my ancestor'scrossing. After each late evening's dinner, I climbed downsuccessive metal ladders into her deep, dark, cold cargohold. Stripping to my underwear, I lay on my back on a widerough bare dunnage plank and forced myself to stay therethrough all ten nights of the crossing, trying to imagine whatdid he see, hear, feel, smell, taste--and above all, in knowingKunta, what things did he think? My crossing of course wasludicrously luxurious by any comparison to the ghastly ordeal

endured by Kunta Kinte, his companions, and all those othermillions who lay chained and shackled in terror and their ownfilth for an average of eighty to ninety days, at the end of whichawaited new physical and psychic horrors. But anyway, finally Iwrote of the ocean crossing--from the perspective of thehuman cargo. Finally I've woven our whole seven generationsinto this book that is in your hands. In the years of the writing, Ihave also spoken before many audiences of how Roots i (came to be, naturally now and then someone asks, "How j jmuch of Roots is fact and how much is fiction?" To the best ofmy knowledge and of my effort, every lineage statement withinRoots is from either my African or American families' carefullypreserved oral history, much of which I have been ableconventionally to corroborate with documents. Thosedocuments, along with the myriad textural details of what werecontemporary indigenous lifestyles, cultural history, and suchthat give Roots flesh have come from years of intensiveresearch in fifty-odd libraries, archives, and other repositorieson three continents. Since I wasn't yet around when most ofthe story occurred, by far most of the dialogue and most of theincidents are of necessity a novelized amalgam of what I knowtook place together with what my researching led me toplausibly feel took place. I think now that not only areGrandma, Cousin Georgia, and those other ladies "up therewatchin'," but so are all of the others: Kunta and Bell; Kizzy;Chicken George and Matilda; Torn and Irene; Grandpa WillPalmer; Bertha; Mama--and now, as well, the most recent oneto join them. Dad.... He was eighty-three. When his children--George, Julius, Lois, and I--had discussed the funeral

arrangements, some one of us expressed that Dad had livedboth a full life and a rich one in the way that he interpretedrichness. Moreover, he had gone quickly without suffering andknowing Dad as well as we all did, we agreed that he wouldnot have wanted us going about crying. And we agreed thatwe would not. I found myself so full of the memories that whenthe mortician said "the deceased," it startled me that hemeant our dad, around whom things rarely got dull. Shortlybefore the first service that was held for him in a Washing- ton,D. C. " chapel thick with family friends, my brother George toldthe Reverend Boyd, who was in charge, that at an appropriatepoint, we sons would like to share some memories of Dadwith the friends there. So after brief conventional services, afavorite song of Dad's was sung, then George got up andstood near the open casket. He said he vividly recalled thatwherever Dad had taught, our home was always shared withat least one youth whose rural farmer father Dad had talkedinto letting his son attend college; the "no money" protestbeing solved by Dad's saying, "He'll live with us." As a result,George estimated that about the South were around eighteencounty agricultural agents, high school principals, andteachers who proudly call themselves " " Fessor Haley's boys." George said that among earlier memory was once when welived in Alabama and at breakfast Dad said, "You boys comeon, there's a great man I want you to meet." And just like thatDad drove us three boys the several hours to Tuskegee,Alabama, where we visited the mysterious laboratory of thesmall, dark genius scientist. Dr. George Washington Carver,who talked to us about the need to study hard and gave us

each a small flower. George said that in Dad's later years, hehad been irked that we did not hold annual large familyreunions as he would have liked, and George asked theaudience now to join us in feeling that really we were holding areunion both for and with our dad. I got up as George took hisseat, and going over, looking at Dad, I said to the people thatbeing the oldest child, I could remember things farther backabout the gentleman lying there. For instance, my first distinctboyhood impression of love was noticing how Dad's andMama's eyes would look at each other over the piano topwhen Mama was playing some little introduction as Dad stoodnear waiting to sing in our church. Another early memory wasof how I could always get a nickel or even a dime from Dad,no matter how tight people were going around saying thingswere. All I had to do was catch him alone and start begginghim to tell me just one more time about how his AEF 92ndDivision, 366th Infantry, fought in the Meuse Argonne Forest."Why, we were ferocious, son!" Dad would exclaim. By thetime he gave me the dime it was clear that whenever thingswould look really grim to General Blackjack Pershing, onceagain he would send a courier to bring Savannah,Tennessee's, Sergeant Simon A. Haley (No .2816106,whereupon the lurking German spies sped that news to then-highest command, throwing fright into the Kaiser himself. Butit seemed to me, I told the people, that after Dad's having metMama at Lane College, his next most fateful meeting for all ofus had been when Dad had transferred to AT College inGreensboro, North Carolina, and was about to drop out ofschool and return home to sharecrop, "Because, boys,

working four odd jobs, I just never had time to study." Butbefore he left, word came of his acceptance as a temporarysummer-season Pullman porter. On a night train from Buffaloto Pittsburgh, at about 2 a. m. his buzzer rang, and asleepless white man and his wife each wanted a glass ofwarm milk. Dad brought the milk, he said, "and I tried to leave,but the man was just talkative and seemed surprised that Iwas a working college student. He asked lots of questions,then he tipped well in Pittsburgh." After saving every possiblecent, when Dad returned to college that September of 1916,the college president showed him correspondence from theman on the train--a retired Curtis Publishing Companyexecutive named R. S. M. Boyee--who had written asking thecost of one full year's everything, then had sent his check. "Itwas about $503.15 with tuition, dormitory, meals, and booksincluded," Dad said, and he scored marks that later saw himwith a graduate-study scholarship that the Comell UniversitySchool of Agriculture began giving that year to the topagricultural student at each of the Negro land- grant colleges.And that, I told the people, was how our dad got his master'sdegree at Cornell, and then was a professor, so that we, hischildren, grew up amid those kinds of influences, which whenput together with what a lot of other people on our mama'sside also had done, was why we were fortunate enough to bethere seeing Dad oil now with me as an author, George as anassistant director of the United States Information Agency,Julius as a U. S. Navy Department architect, and Lois as ateacher of music. We flew Dad's body then to Arkansas,where a second ceremony was thronged with his friends from

Pine Bluff's AM&N University and its area where as the cleanof agriculture, Dad had rounded out his total of forty years ofeducating. As we knew he would have wanted, we drove himthrough the campus and twice along the road where the streetsign near the agricultural building said "S. A. Haley Drive," asit had been named when he retired. The Pine Bluff serviceover, we took Dad to where he had previously told us hewanted to lie--in the Veterans' Cemetery in Little Rock.Following his casket as it was taken to Section 16, we stoodand watched Dad lowered into grave No .1429. Then wewhom he had fathered--members of the seventh generationfrom Kunta Kinte-walked away rapidly, averting our faces fromeach other, having agreed we wouldn't cry. So Dad has joinedthe others up there. I feel that they do watch and guide, and Ialso feel that they join me in the hope that this story of ourpeople can help alleviate the legacies of the fact thatpreponderantly the histories have been written by the winners.

The End